


Recount

by Ketchrey



Series: Undisclosed [1]
Category: Red vs Blue
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, goes along with seasons 9 - 10, minor OCs - Freeform, somewhat divergent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-27 11:35:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5047003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ketchrey/pseuds/Ketchrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Discontinued]</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He makes it perfectly clear that there will be no going out of his way to save them. Only you can save them, and you'll never save them all.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carolina has been climbing ladders her whole life without a spotter. She's following in the footsteps of the unattainable, chasing after ghosts in space. When she falls she's not expecting to caught.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Prologue_

* * *

 

Suppose it has to do with what little things you remember. Five years old and starting your first tumbling class. Driving to gymnastics, signing up for judo and the persistently pushed martial arts class. Before and after school he would take you and watch, back by the bleachers. He stood away from the other parents because he hadn't cared for the 'getting to know you', sessions. You were his proprietary subject.

In transit, there's plenty of time for regret. No fleetingly happy memory should've been enough to compel you to this point. It's not what's left of love that leads you up the ramp with other recruits. The love is only residual.

The others boarding hadn't seemed nearly as conflicted, lugging along only their physical baggage. The ones with duffles can't possibly know where they're going. The stats of frontline men stationed for drops look prettier than result numbers from PFL for the last few months alone. They neglected to place these stats in the commission papers and clearly -as is shown by the boys who've packed more than the clothes on their backs- not every recruit had been made aware of how quickly special ops personnel drop like flies under the program Freelancer.

Yourself included, there are twelve men and three women strapped into on either side of the cabin and only a good third resemble seasoned ODSTs. They're easy to pick out too, as ODSTs are always the ones looking over uniform men and women like predators weaning out prey.

Positioned near the aft of the ship is this monster of a man with genetically modified eyes. You count half a dozen of his blades in plain sight and there's sure to be a few you won see without a ruckus. The man across from him has an awful welt, equally unpleasant to the odour that glances off his standard Kevlar. Judging by the blood crusting his suit, you would resolve that they've pulled him directly from field runs.

You continue down the row, distinguishing very clearly the more experienced from this outfit. You linger a moment over the soldier harnessed horizontal to your seat. As one of the remaining few not yet wearing a helmet, it's plain enough to see where he angles his chin and runs eyes over your exposed physique. The gaze, dark under ceiling lights lifts to stare into your visor, slow grin pulling up his mouth. He winks.

"Like what you see?" His voice is too smooth for the bitter taste it evokes.

"Excuse me?" This voice filter can really support a snarl.

"Couldn't help but notice you taking in the spread. Quite the variety right? Gotta be somethin' here for everybody." He stretches back languidly. "No rush, you've got the rest of the flight to decide."

"...Decide on what?"

Straight faced he slouches, ankles crossing each other. "If I'm worth the risk, kid. No need to be shy about it, I just have that effect on people. It's no cake walk to be wrapped in this package."

A little ways down from your seat a man chuckles, grated and animatronic through another helmet filter.

"Do be careful lad. There are several airlocks on board, wouldn't want to insult the lady."

Following the accent over to your right, the soldier tilts his helmet toward you and lifts a hand good-naturedly.

"With a track record such as his there are very few who would oppose a disappearance to the cosmos. No bother the repercussions dear. Should you choose a more invasive approach, I'd advise preliminary excision to be that tongue of his."

Clearly affronted, the soldier in context snorts. "Plenty of people will mourn for me." He iterates. "My track record? Alright, if we're going there I'm gonna have to reinstate my complaint from earlier. On the subject of the four hour drive here? My ears are still experiencing phantom pains from your shitty 'knock knocks', but all I have to do is open my mouth and it warrants organ extraction?"

"Only the one organ, chap."

..."You're an insult to the queen." He redirects his gaze when the older man snorts, making a face and looking over the isle. "Anyone else smell something?"

The British man exhales heavily. "Ah, Christ..."

"It's something good." Upon another side glance down the row, the man catches the slant of your helmet and grins all the wider. "Like a, Grandma's kitchen ol'Earth kind of 'good'."

A beat of silence follows the statement before the ODST to his left shifts uncomfortably. Setting the helmet in his lap onto the floor he reaches and drags out the bag below his seat. The entirety of recruits are watching as he draws back zippers and sticks an arm into the bag's contents.

The most obnoxious belt of a laugh sounds from the idiot's mouth as a now beet red recruit pulls out a Tupperware container. "Holy fuck. Are those real?"

The recruit passes him a cookie, then looks for a moment like he might offer one to you. Thankfully, he seems to have more sense than that.

Vaguely listening to the soldier and the ODST who's mother packed him snacks delve into a comfortable back and forth, you let yourself lie back into the harness. Their voices, with the occasional air report of a self-appointed and little-bit-crass tour-guide pilot, stretch the remaining flight time to where it feels to have tripled what the logs show.

Docking in Freelancer's multifaceted training facility, there is a small man waiting for the group to unload. The report dictates he's to be addressed as, Counselor. Commissioned uniforms are handed out as are the new names, classifications pressed into requisite tags.

Yours reads, Carolina.

The soldier with dark eyes from the plane laughs down the row from where you're stood, cracking a joke at someone else's expense. New York. He grins like he doesn't know where he is.

There were more than those fifty. You might not even be the original Carolina. The names are so important here to them, but names are a dismally small fraction of what he's doing. People don't count into this equation. His projects are stringent.

The Counselor leads your group along a regulatory tour of the Mother of Invention's facility, and concave feeling starts to swell in your gut. Learn the faces as they come, names alone count for nothing.

First, there's York and Wyoming.

Cookie boy is named Oregon, later on you'll still affiliate the smell of oatmeal and an insecure blush with the state.

He's the first to go.


	2. chapter 1

 

Agent York is a case. From the first time you removed your helmet in the Mother of Invention's auditorium, he's been persistently trying to match your face to another.

He drops hints about colonized planets you've taken leave on, talks about old dead army buddies only interested in drinks and good times. The most non-subtle drop had been when he offered you a cigarette when you had never told him you smoked.

He thinks he remembers you. You think he might too.

You play him off as casually as possible. A grand part of the reason you came here was to prove you were through with past influences and relationships. This was a strategic career move, something that's going to open doors provided you make it out. In addition, Freelancer makes a point of enforcing the conception of secrecy between staff. It's a win win, because you've never had it easy making friends, and who even has the time for that?

The first few weeks had made it clear coming here was the best move. To say you've been thriving would be an understatement. Beta the first week, on drops regularly by the second. It's your fifth month with Project Freelancer and could easily be one of their top dogs. There are ten spots open on Alpha and those numbers flux around more than kite in the wind. Your place has held fast consistently. As has York's you've noticed.

It almost seems deliberate, him always just a foot or two behind you.

You check with your peripherals for about the fourth time since sitting down in the mess hall. It's early morning even for regulatory standards, but you're on high alert. If you pick up even a clip of that lazy timbre, you'll leave both Connecticut and your breakfast tray by themselves at the table.

If Connecticut notices the way you're wound she doesn't bring it up. Across the table from you she nibbles at a bran muffin. They're stale of course, all the food on board is shit, but she savours every piece as if it'll be the last she tastes.

She keeps quiet while you poke the cold toast on your tray, reaching only once to tuck dark chocolate hair away from her mouth. She considers hacking it off almost daily, but so far hasn't had the motivation to actually go through with it.

..."I'll tell you if he comes from behind." She says around a mouthful of muffin.

The irritated breath you direct a her goes unnoticed. You're reminded quite frequently of just how lucky you were to have Connecticut slotted as a roommate. She's quiet, she sleeps through the night, she has no problem with you throwing your shit wherever...

When you meet someone who looks and sound like Connecticut, the initial image must correlate back to elementary school, summer wind in the grass and a hand through the daisies, recreating the hometown girl with soft eyes and a thin smile. You weren't sure there wasn't an initiation prank being pulled when she introduced herself and gave you the bed closest to the door. You realized the misjudgement during the first run of your partnership. She's small and she's subtle, and that's how she catches you. She slits throats as seamlessly as she spreads synthetic butter over shity muffins.

Finishing with her food she pushes her tray aside, resting her helmet in its place. Her mouth runs into a scowl while she deliberates, checking for infractures inside the head space.

How they had acquired so many Spartan models you can't begin to gauge. The armor overwhelms in weight and anticipation where you're physically and mentally adapting to fit. Only special rounds can pierce the plating, burst off blasts are absorbed by exterior bio-cells. The features are almost enough to forgive the putrid colors they came in.

Connecticut hates the look of her armor. York loves the sheen and swankiness of his. You keep to yourself, try to look past the specialized helmet from the others. It was too long ago to remember if one of your favorite gymnastic suits had been this shade of blue.

"Bogie approaching on your six." Connecticut murmurs, tilting her helmet. Through her double visors there are two small Yorks breaking away from the cafeteria line. "Wait, wait... You might be, oh nope. Nope. He sees you." She draws back the helmet, flitting a cheeky smirk. "I tried."

"Morning ladies," York greets, the helmet giving his voice a muffled drape. He sidles up to the bench on your right then lets himself drop, and the entire table sinks with him.

Your glare is on Connecticut as York makes himself comfortable. She holds her lips in a thin line, bearing down the smile for your sake when York reclines with his back to the table, facing open hall.

"Did you hear who's been promoted?"

Connecticut snorts and a bit of muffin flies from her mouth. "Oh no, York. I'm sure she's got no fucking clue. You're a real lifesaver, letting her in on that."

"Hey, I'm here to inform." He replies, completely bypassing the snip in her tone. He leans a little too close to your food. "One of these days, we'll all be taking orders from you, Lina."

A little of his weight presses over the table, one hand reaching to hover above your plate. His fingers latch onto the edge of your toast, eyes darting up to grin at you. It's quite satisfying when he physically wavers.

"Put it down."

..."Are we not up for sharing this morning?"

"Put it. Down."

He lets go and raises his hand. "Sorry, mixed signals. What are you up to Connie?"

Connecticut plucks her helmet up under an arm, armor shuffling as she rotates and gets up from the table. "Leaving." You scowl at her back as she moves away, almost certain you can hear snickering.

The shift of York's arms, spreading over the table's surface, his exhale pricking at your annoyance. You distract from this by taking a quiet rip of toast.

"Only child, right?"

Your mouth is full, thankfully.

"You kind of give off that vibe." He proceeds cluelessly, sagging back against the table top. Harsh lights overhead give his gold chest piece a celestial gleam. It's a little bit pathetic that he spends so much time on his appearance. Between the gel in his hair and the frequent polishing of his armor, it's actually no wonder how he avoids getting properly messed up. With the amount of products he uses none of the Innies can get a fucking hold on him.

"I wanted to be an only child growing up. Eight kids, Lina." He groans like he expects you to harbor some of that for him. "No brothers- sisters. Fucking seven sisters."

You tear into the crust of your toast, just barely listening. "We're not friends, York. Past lives are irrelevant. I don't care to hear about your family."

"We'll then, we could talk about you some."

"You missed the key account of that sentence."

"So why is it we can't get along? You afraid of a friendship leading to something more?"

You face him head on, making sure he sees the look flaring up your features. He laughs, lifting his hands feebly. "Okay, that was a joke, Lina. Try to ease up."

"I'm not here to make friends."

"Hey, me neither. Friends are the worst."

"I'm trying to explain this in a way that your simple mind might understand." It comes out through your teeth. "I can't stand you. Every time you open your mouth I feel like roundhousing you."

..."That's, kind of a turn on."

"Shouldn't you be at an infiltrations class or something? God fucking knows you need every second of practice they provide."

"Wow, chop off my balls why don't you,"

"It's been very tempting."

"Can't believe you're not taken, Carolina,"

"What is your obsession with me?" Glare directly into his visor, the point from where his peaceful interest projects. "Soldiers do not hold each others hands, York."

"Can soldiers have friends?"

"Are you asking?"

"Well, yeah. Trying to." He shifts, his legs straddling the bench. "Can't we just be friends, Carolina?"

There's a beat, and he's just sitting there like a jackass, waiting. You let him wonder, enjoying the dominance as you finish the last bit of crust on your plate and swiping your fingers over the leftover crumbs.

"No."

..."No?"

Stick two fingers in your mouth to get the butter off. ..."Did I stutter?"

He says nothing and you reach across to pick at the remains crumbles of Connecticut's muffin. In perfect contrast to how he came, York shifts from the bench and gets up with no further quips.

You notice his absence the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

 

Professionals don't make work personal. They don't ask irrelevant questions and they don't argue when something isn't what they thought it was.

Connecticut doesn't give a shit over your deep-rooted military etiquette, or that you're tired, and sore, and your skin itches with dried sweat. All you need is a hot shower and a few hours of sleep. Maybe just skip the shower.

"Did you know we have an A.I?" She spouts off, legs folded beneath her. A tablet in her hands, she presses herself back is against your shared desk table. Already it has rocked a little away from her.

Over your own cot you transition to your back, eyes tilting to the ceiling. The position allows you to identify every muscle that had been targeted today. "I thought that was common knowledge." Does brushing your teeth really warrant a trip down the hall?

"Not F.I.L.S.S." She retorts, running fingers through her bangs. "I think there's another one. A smart A.I."

You say nothing to that. Connecticut will dig into anything if there's enough interest presented, and you really don't feel up to any more of her questions.

"Don't you find that strange?"

"An I suppose to?" You release, emphasizing your exhaustion.

"F.I.L.S.S. is an integrated asset. She's been around from the very start of the Freelancer to serve our benefit. This one has never been introduced."

"Then it's none of our business." You conclude, a little more irritable under her persistence. So she's one of those people who give A.I.s human attributes. "How frequently have you been interacting with F.I.L.S.S. in ordwr to be familiar with all this?"

"Well, I thought it was strange," She mutters, finishing up with her reading and setting the tablet back over her drawer.

You close your eyes and suck in a breath before forcing yourself up. On the pads of your feet the floor is cold and uneven. Connecticut tucks herself under her sheets and pulls the duvet up to her chin. Her red-chestnut eyes are lidded as you walk past her bunk for the door.

"...Five minutes and I'll be asleep." She says, a quiet warning for when you get back.

You pluck your tooth brush from the desktop drawer and cross the floor. The cabin door parts to the left and you have to squint because the hallways are already dimming for the night.

One step out into the corridor and your foot touches something. Glancing down you can barely see the glint of reflected light on the object but as you kneel the shape of it starts to make sense. Outside weapons are not permitted on board the training facility, and there are measures taken to ensure no agents slip through the cracks of these regulations. Despite the odds there's a lighter by your foot.

Casting a rapid glance down the hall you reach and fold it into the fist with you toothbrush. Your legs carry you backwards, moving from cold floor to carpet and the door has sealed itself before you've realized it.

"...Thought you were gonna use the bathroom." Connecticut mumbles through her pillow.

She blurs into the background as you turn the lighter in your palm. It's one of the cheap mini mart lighters with a logo you don't place straight away. It's a familiar weight though. You flip the switch and a small flame ignites.

Watching it for a moment, your thumb catches on the edge and the cap flips shut. Turning the little box you expose the bottom and stare.

There's a strip of painters tape pressed there, smudged with ink lines.

_'How's about we test the waters as friends?'_

Well after lights-out, the lighter turns itself over in your hand. Connecticut begins to snore softly. Her breathing relaxes yours. The lighter folds beneath your fingers and the feeling is very fleeting and stupidly naive, but maybe...

... Friends...


	3. chapter 2

The enhancements are intoxicating. They assign you a speed mod for testing purposes, and you love it more than you have any right to.

Slowing from 130k/h is a well practiced maneuver. An unbalanced hiatus often resulted with heavy tissue and structural damage. You broke three ribs and sprained a wrist on the first go, and that was considered lucky. Figuring the metrics of terminal speed inside the kevlar, underneath the body armour, while under fire was something that had taken weeks and a variation of injuries to fully clear. You still aren't quite sure you've mastered it.

There's a short burst through your headset that you disdain from attending to, focus diverting to the unpleasant grind of grav boot against tarmac. Adjust that weight into your heels while still measuring the fold of your knees. Wait for inertia to catch up, the punch of metal mass to your bones as it does. Feel your jaw rattling as you drop to one knee, dragging your arms elbow to wrist into the ground. Stone and cement shred beneath you in a cringeworthy wail. The mod's alert goes off, a dull sound that you mute before considering too deeply.

It takes moments to regained your composure, then you're on your feet again, following the readout display of your visor. Distant com chatter floods the headset while you run; bicker between agents, adrenaline powered breaths, violent slang... You pick one voice out from the rest and open a channel. "ETA four minutes."

"Nice of you to join us." He responds immediately, the ringing of gunfire loud against audio ports. ..."Four minutes is bull. You fry the booster?"

"No one else is complaining."

"You fried the booster."

"Sit rep, York." It comes out a growl.

"Here I thought you were interested in hearing from me. Arkansas and Alaska are up top; vitals look good."

"I have a readout, I know they're fine. What is the deal with Montana?"

"Maybe talk to her yourself, alright? As the only one getting an ass licked by Innie fire, 'think I have a valid right not to play operator this time around."

Without sparing the time to sign off you cut his channel. Breathing filtered air into your suit you patch in to Montana. "What's the hold up?"

"Nearly through- don' get ya panties in a bunch." Comes her thick, southern cadence. "Ah like this tech. ...All up an' pretty."

"York will be on infiltration our next run."

"Replace me with pretty boy? Thought we were closer than that, Carolina."

Your readout flashes two minutes. Up ahead, Arkansas spits curses. For all the noise he's making one would imagine him to be bleeding out, but you know for a fact he's been nicked only twice; the more serious of the wounds stuffed with biofoam. Alaska and Montana are both uninhibited. York is taking a beating.

Eight months you've been a Freelancer. Four from when you were boosted to Alpha team. Eight weeks since the last squad leader was bumped. This your squad now. These are your men and women to bring home safe.

Alaska clears a new channel, interrupting your thought process.

"Interested in a zhestkaya napitok 'bout now, eh?"

York half wails just as you reach the boarder of the empty lot. "Man, I don't know what the fuck you're askin'. Quit filling my headset with Pinsky bitch spam, gotta be focused."

A static sigh. "Sad mal'chik. You must relax, plaksiyvm mal'chikom."

Montana snorts obnoxiously enough for phlegm to create a buzz through the headset. "Ahah, sad is that York's readin' shit like Pinsky, an' yah read 'em toffee gum wrappers."

"Blyad', who is Pinsky?"

Scanning the grounds from a good distance, you take the time to place your teammates. Alaska and Arkansas are above to cover flank, Montana within the complex. York has set himself up behind a damaged trailer at the opposite end of the lot. Half a dozen Innies are ducked below four-foot cement barriers, pelting his cover while creating a dangerous ring around him. Forced into a tough place, he alternates between exposing himself to fire and taking pot shots at the enemy while they attempt to close him in.

The booster is malfunctioning but you still cover the lot in good time, flicking for the blade strapped in against your collar. The first one doesn't realize you're on him until it's too late. You try to fall with him silently, slipping the blade out of his throat. The next in line turns his rifle on you and lets out a warning cry. The shot clears over your shoulder as you come at him, cleaving a knee into his gut and folding your arm around his throat. You release when there's a brittle snap against the fold of your elbow and let the body drop.

Bullets pelt you in motion, clipping accents of cerulean. York has taken initiative redirecting the Insurrectionist's train of fire and that leaves you the window to bolt.

It's an ungraceful skid, but you make it with York covering. He takes no further chances once you're crouched away from their fire, dragging the rifle to his chest and tucking away from the spray of bullets that come for him as he withdraws.

"...Nice to have company," He puffs, folding shakily to one knee and checking the rounds in his rifle. "...Last mag." It's slurred, like he's ready to lie down. The kevlar closed around his lower torso is wet.

"Are those cauterized?" Take the rifle from between your shoulders.

He knows what you're referring too and shrugs. Picture the infuriating grin behind that helmet. "I'll get to it in a minute."

"Get to it now." You shift up from your knees, checking your numbers briefly before returning attention to the firing Innies.

"Nice to know you care." He grunts, shifting in discomfort to nestle himself farther into the trailer bed. He chokes off a little as the suit's sensory system commences the procedure. Redirect your attention and put eighty rounds into the affronting Innies.

A com sounds off and you're met by Arkansas's wet cough.

"Carolina? I'm picking up enemy aircrafts coming in. Sixteen miles."

Your hud almost immediately begins to light up with the same schematics and low alert beacon. Leaving York to deal with the remaining men, you flood cover from the backside of the trailer to the front. Dead turrets aim toward you menacingly but your gaze passes them into the start of the facility's archway. You open a channel and the murmured rendition of Louis Armstrong's Wonderful World is the first thing that the audio picks up. You would find it morbid were you not so use to Montana by this stage.

..."Agent Montana,"

"It's a process, babe. Ma' process. ...Don't fuck with tha' process."

"Gospodin, you know you are slowing down gruppa when..."

"Up yers, asswipe. Ya takin' York's place as team bitch?"

Before Alaska can prepare his rebuttal you intervene. "Montana, so help me-"

"All good, m'am. F.I.L.S.S. 'got us covered. Comin' down bitches."

Nod beneath your helmet, glaring over the numbers displayed on you hud. "Alaska, get an extraction going."

York jogs up to you, but it's an awkward hobble. He leans himself against the trailer to remain upright. Discretely, you pull up his bio-com data, blocking it out when Montana alternates to humming.

Gathering himself, York's posture slouches but he focuses down the sight of his rifle. You gear yourself into doing the same. Ignore the red warning lights over York's log. Set your eyes over the remaining targets.

Before either of you can pull a trigger, the complex lights and ignites.

Force of the impact nearly knocks you clear off your feet before the grav boots have activated. The trailer you took cover behind has flipped onto its far side with a squeal you can barely make out through the bone rattling bursts of combustion.

"Chertovski yebat'! Mat' yebut!" The radio creates a crackle in Alaska's shout.

Knocked to ground by the blast York rolls stiffly to his knees, biting down a groan.

It takes you that long to realize there's no longer jazz music humming through the radio. Another half a second to pull up the bio-com in your helmet.

Montana's signal is non existent.

"...Carolina, I got three miles!" Arkansas reports, his voice rising in panic.

"Suka, Montana?" Let Alaska try to contact her. Keep the information to yourself until the rest of your team is no longer at risk. York tilts his visor to you, holding himself up with the support of the flipped trailer's undercarriage. Your movements are sluggish enough that he reads into them straight away.

"Fucking- dammit..." He hisses, tenderly testing out his left leg.

"...Alaska where's our evac?"

He doesn't reply.

"Agent Alaska, are you fucking hearing me?"

"...Da. I am."

"Tell me where the FUCK they are!"

"...No here. Komandir su-" His retort is shortened by the sudden heavy hiss of afterburners overhead. Just the sound and you're offered brief flashes of a distant yet not so distant time before. Tired and weary... Caked in blood and soot and dirt... The sounds of airships are customary to bringing relief. There is no relief in the arrival of these crafts.

Acting upon instinct, you throw your weight into York. Far too much of your attention goes to the hurt yelp he lets slip when you force him down against the tarmac. The radio in your audio set bursts into a solid static crescendo and you resist the urge to rip off your helmet and scratch out both ears.

The radio cuts out abruptly, replaced with the hissing of chain fire before they too are defused into silence under the masking of thrusters. Bullets rip through the air like swarms of wasps, cutting up metal and cement alike in their wake.

Thunderous rapid fire strikes off overhead, pelting off loose pieces of sidings from the factory buildings. York clutches your wrist and you let him squeeze, imagining his tight grimace and the sound of molars grinding. Arkansas's vitals light up with alerts, then they go out completely.

When the air engines finally grow distant, there has been a heavy decline of the signals on your hud. There is only York. You keep yourself tucked to him, monitoring your medical logs to figure his stats into numbers. The number of minutes he has before hemorrhaging out into his suit.

When extract arrives he's no longer lucid. A medic assists you with hoisting him on board, where they proceed to strip him out of gold and kevlar to tend to the many craters in his stomach. Only you get to see Arkansas's bloody mess, or how Alaska had been ripped into by machine gun fire and knocked from his sniper perch to his head... and there's no way to recover Montana.

While they're boarding York, you make your way over to Arkansas and remove his bright red and white helmet. It's the first time you've seen his face, and there's a hole punched through his cranium. Never had you thought Arkansas to be the crew cut sort. You hold you stomach down to look at Alaska. His helmet is the only thing keeping the neck in place. You don't try to remove it.

A recovery team would be dispatched, not for Montana but for the other two. It's not your job to tend to the bodies.

You are hastened into boarding, too detached to think more fully over what will be done with your former teammates. Strapped in, you see to it York is pumped full of anesthesia for the trip. Then and only then do you allow yourself to rest. It's while you're drifting that you recognize in a subtle wave of nostalgia, this may be you in shock.

****

The Intel was gathered. You established yourself by surviving at all. You saved one of your squadmates.

You were commended for efficiency and the timing at which F.I.L.S.S. was alerted and patched into the enemy's network. Small losses are acceptable while establishing great progression.

He makes it perfectly clear to you, indirectly and face-to-face; there will be no going out of his way to save them. Only you can save them, and you'll never save them all.

York is out of recovery by the second day, bound up around the middle but mobile enough to jog and dosed high enough to keep up that intrepid effort he rides so casually.

He finds you in the mess hall and takes the vacant seat to your right. He doesn't speak and you continue eating, working on abolishing his presence through your mind.

York takes a particularly noisy crunch out of his apple.

..."...S'not yer fault."

He says it in a disgusting mix of juice and fruit flesh, so it's easy to pretend you hadn't heard. Still, your appetite diminishes.

York finishes his apple and reaches across your plate to take a spoonful of mashed potatoes.

He almost seems disappointed that you let him.

 ****

**Russian translations**

**Zhestkaya napitok ~ Stiff drink**

**Mal'chik ~ Boy**

**Plaksiyvm m** **al'chik ~ Whiny boy**

**Blyad' ~ Fuck**

**Gospodin ~ Lord**

**Gruppa ~ Group**

**Chertovski yebat'! Mat' yebut! ~ Fucking fuck! Mother fuck!**

**Suka ~ Bitch**

**Da ~ Yeah**

**Komandir ~ Commander**


	4. chapter 3

  
  
It's the engine room that's humming. Once you've pinpointed that there's no ignoring the thrum to your bones, so resounding that you have started to visualize the surrounding walls splitting from sheer magnitude of the waves.

Over the north wing of the ship are the conference rooms and offices. So seldom have you been outside of military barracks that entering one of these cubicles comes with an aftershock of Earth and an adult world, the habits of an ancient civilizations.

This report is just a mandatory check up, because very suddenly the staff gives a shit about your mental wellbeing. An in and out, to see what this is about and ensure it's in the best interest of your team. Your team of flummoxing best of the best who've been doing just that as of late. Flummoxing.

Their faces locked into screams are definitely not things that keep you up late into the night. Thirty-three replacements over the last three months, but it's not a number that has you watching the headcount as though agents are stock numbers ready to plummet.

A chirp of polypropylene sounds against the floor from the opposite end of the desk.

"I'm pleased to see you taking initiative in caring for your cerebral health, Carolina. The Director thought it best to hold regular examinations along with due physicals, now that our operations have entered a more... consistent pace. While there are steadily available assets."

You keep all fingers beneath his view, clenching your thighs. Fair share of interactions with psychiatrists have taught you they can pull anything from bodily functions and muscle spasms. The less of these he's able to pick out of you the better.

"We'll start whenever you feel ready, Carolina."

 

***

 

Fingers bare and coated to the palms of gauntlets, you try very hard not to seethe.

Standing slouched, the woman snaps a glare that starts around your jaw and roams. The scope of you donning loose track pants and an equally comfortable U.N.S.C. issued tank top gets some good attention. Particularly, where the fabric clings. In absolutely no hurry her eyes make it back to yours, face recollapsing into a scowl. "...The fuck makes it your business?"

The demand is low register and gnarled and your jaw stiffens at the hidden challenge laying beneath it. "My team. My business."

She takes a moment to retain the menacing composure, then glowers. "So, what? This your ship too?"

The body next to yours emits a low rumble, towering a full head and then some over the confrontative little woman. Said woman looks up into Maine's impassive face and raises a middle finger.

"I'm going to need a designation."

Her arms drop to swing loosely beside her hips, glare redirecting towards you. "What is this, a fucking write up? I've had floor level clearance granted for almost a week."

"Yeah, well, I only learn names after week two. Your designation, agent."

"Dakota."

"Which one?"

"This one."

Look up slowly, unimpressed. Your male company growls.

"...All that happened was your lackey here, passed a little too close when I was leaving the showers. Came in contact with some things he's probably never seen before. So then he got decked a little for it. Ya can't just hand out free admission to a show like this."

"South Dakota." You find the name on your bio-com's register. "...Shocking we haven't already had the pleasure."

"Lucky shot in the dark, dolly."

"You'll call me sir, South."

"What if I don't wanna?"

"Then there will be repercussions." Depicting an image of order and control, you flick your gaze from her scuffed standard reg grav boots to the mess of hair flocking around the edgier cusps of her face. South Dakota doesn't flinch, almost props herself out more. The stretch of her muscles tugging the ink etched into her chest and arms.

..."I don't believe my 'lackey' meant anything by bumping into you, South. And since you evidently took to offence in the heat of the moment, I think it'd be fair to say the both of you have seen quite enough of each other for one night."

She rolls her shoulders, flipping the mat of bleached bangs out of her eyes. "Guess we'll see."

"However, should you ever assault a member of my unit like that again, I will have you off this ship demoted down to ass-wiping, shock troop degenerate faster than you can come up with any more of those twelve-year-old retorts. That clear enough for you, South?"

Her body muscles contract, the tattoos over her chest expanding with her lungs. Her pale lips take a slow wind into amusement. "Explicitly, m'am."

Your heavy weight comrade fills his chest as Agent South corrects the laxed crook of her spine. She purses her lips up at him mid-rotation, then you both watch her strut away.

..."I hope this goes without saying, but I trust you now know to avoid shower stalls around specific time slots?"

His weight shifts. "Bitch."

"We've been getting a lot of those lately." Though meant as a snark it comes out a lament. "She's made it a week. Reports say three drops. We might actually be stuck with her for a while." Stretching a hand over the lounge table you swipe up the deck of cards Wyoming had left on its surface. The men will sometimes fool around and play a few games after deployments together.

Coming back on an overload of testosterone coated camaraderie, priority is to hold out on the climax for as long as possible. When they reach that sweet equilibrium, the games come out and things get ridiculous.You've witnessed them gamble away the most unconventional things one might pick up onboard the Mother, and then some. On one occasion, York had become severely depressed over the loss of a 2176 issued penny, and on another he lost rights to a billet in the on-going shore leave pool. Last name drawn has to serve as body shot server for every drinking game.

 _So_ ridiculous.

Tonight it had just been Wyoming and York facing off in an enthralling game of Solitaire. Enthralling, only due to the bottle of twelve-year-old scotch Connie had snuck in from your most recent grace period. You find that you've been letting more and more slip since taking up the mantle of companionship York had offered. A horrible influence he's been.

Four glasses in Wyoming had started muttering noncommittally to himself. Once the glasses were abandoned for a bottle, the conversation quickly escalated into bickering and it became unclear whether his relationship with the voices in his head was at all that stable. You were half expecting to witness him eat it face first into the floor when he stood up at the end of the night.

Connie had left earlier and York has been dispatched on an assignment run and is therefore, not a member of this 'not randomly decided at all', game night. The burden of tracking down and relocating Wyoming back to his quarters goes to you by default. The breakdown of cooperation you'd had to deal with just now has only prolonged what would've been the start of a search and rescue.

You release a breath and stand, company rising as you do. It's almost humbling how deeply he heeds to your authority, like a soldier rather than a wayward classmate. It's certainly not because of this that you decide to watch him more closely.

"Wanna be co-player in the world's worst game of 'Where's Waldo'?"

Giving a weak shrug he falls into step a little behind you.

Maine was bumped up to Alpha predominantly as muscle, to enable the majority of Alpha at preserving longer. So far he has only knocked the numbers in training matches. Numbers you've been working tenaciously to hold in place. You interfered with him and South because his collateral resembles the aftermath of an Elite assault. Maine stands a massive 6'9 sans armor, with a bleak face illuminated by his eyes. Big men shift to the opposite side of the hall when he passes. Agents and attendantees alike gossip, but no one seems to know for sure where it is he came from. A merc. A Spartan. Sierra 117's distant cousin. It's a shock every time he removes that helmet.

Maine is not a machine, but the way you've seen him argues that logic.

He's quiet, and calculated. He's simple and he likes to read and keep up equipment maintenance. From time to time, he shows signs of enjoying companionship. For all his indirected hostility and lack of social skills, Maine has become your easiest allie thus far.

A puff of warm air ghosts the side your neck, reminding you of said allies still trudging presence.

"I'm going to check hallways down around his quarters. You got the mess hall?" Because Wyoming sometimes gets drunken cravings for a blend of rum and orange juice. The Illegal Shirley Temple, was what he had called it.

Maine grunts once, short and piqued.

"Oh you poor thing, It's one level, you can take the elevator."

He remains locked in position, pouting as much as a hulking, non-expressive man is capable of.

Jesus...

..."Go check the halls on his floor."

Maine's head tilts slightly to the right and stretches a corner of his mouth with it. His shoulder jostles yours a little in passing, but it's restrained and not at all as rough as an impact could've been.

"Goddamn suck is what you are..."

Over a shoulder, he sticks out his tongue.

 

***

 

"Does what we discuss during sessions ever make it back around to him?"

Price takes a moment to consider.

..."Should a situation arise where we feel the need to, further explore the intellect of an agent, under more dire circumstances of course... Yes, there are always possibilities something could be brought to attention. The Director feels it to be of utmost importance that the psyches of our assets remain unclothed. There's a certain trust, required in what we're doing together, as I'm sure you can understand. Candor from both ends of our operation has become a necessity."

"Is our honesty becoming a problem?"

The Counselor, compact and brittle next to yourself, makes no move to signify discomfort. "Should the situation arise, we'd like to be prepared for it."

You have to give him some adulation. Price is very good at this game.

... "I would rather we focus on my military career."

"Of course." He tilts the clipboard on the side of his desk, studying it flimsily. When his gaze returns to you, it beholds all the excitement of a child who's discovered the trick of something for the very first time. "The Director feels you have been pressing yourself a great deal over these last months of assignments. Have you taken notice of this?"

"Everyone on the team pushes themselves." You retort. "I'm expected to set an example."

..."Is this something you feel at all pressured into? Perhaps why you push a trend of excellence in your results on assignments?"

"Do we no longer have the room for improvements?"

He takes a moment, documenting before looking up, a subtle crease in his brow. ..."Carolina, along when would you say you first noticed this complex beginning to develop?"

 

***

 

Pins and needles are in a total frenzy down the lower section of your back.

Shrapnel five inches through the armor, split through kevlar and tore a six millimetre incision through the flesh. A medical team had cleaned the burns en-route, then there were others worse off that needed tending to and you were left to blend into the background.

So here you are in the third level locker room, straining for a peripheral view of your back in the only mirror under lights akin to those in a Triller film. The gash runs from the hilt of your shoulder halfway across the blade, swollen to a pronounced, putrid shade of red against the burns. Too serious to leave alone, not serious enough to complain to medical.

Your tongue runs your lip in concentration, craning your arm much further than is comfortable. The needle in your fingertips reflects the overhead lights and sinks into a tender patch of skin.

The feeling is a like a fork puncturing well-done meat. You draw back swallowing nausea, cursing your frustration. The sick feel swims around your skull and you have to drop your weight into your elbows. Breathe deep and every one of the bones in your chest feel like they could rattle loose.

"Everything okay?"

The voice queries out from behind a locker, pulling you out of the nausea spell.

"Fine." You force, trying to revert attention back to the flesh and ache and the needle, and inspecting the scuffs and crevices in the locker room floor.... Vaguely you make out the heavy rotation sounds of armor clipping off the walls. An impressively tall figure armored from the waist down centres himself in a cracked corner of the mirror.

"...Mission went badly?" He asks, that voice always encompassing serene concern.

You let go of a breath. "The mission went fine."

..."Didn't feel the need to go to medical?"

"I've had the same talk with an actual medic."

He doesn't take any of the physical cues you're projecting and shifts his shoulder into a locker. It'd be safe to assume he gets an equal level of sass-back from his sister, and you don't even have South's additional inches of height to level at him.

"Well, not that I claim to be an expert but I have performed my fair share of field stints. May I have a look?"

Stare at him, relaxed against the wall waiting, and huff. Ignoring the taut tug between muscles over your left side you move away from the wall. He watches you drag yourself over to the bench and straightens from his slant to pluck up the dismantled suture kit you have on a bench. Trying to pull the tank top away from your shoulder stretches the skin and you nearly sway. North's hand settles as support at your elbow and helps guide you down to the bench. He moves your fingers with his, stretching the fabric out of his way.

"Shrapnel burst?"

..."Yeah."

"Ouch."

"Could've been worse." The push of the pin through flesh stirs your stomach badly and your hands close around the bench planks. ..."Armor caught most of it."

North works silently, burying the need to explain yourself further. The needle teases into your skin again.

"Rumor has it you made top squad in less than a month." North attempts. "That a fact?"

"Three weeks, three days." You managing, trying not the thing too hard on the unpleasant pull he just gave your skin.

"That's a pretty big deal."

"I thought so too," Your boot almost slips against the floor. Still aiming to keep your head elsewhere you try adopting a lighter tone. "You were in the Marine corps?"

"Huh, yeah I was. For a good decade almost."

You let that rest. "I've seen your logs and assignment histories."

"Then I suppose you're at an advantage when it comes to table talk."

"You were doing well in the navy."

"Guess I was."

You hold off for a moment, sensing that maybe this could be unwelcoming territory you're getting into to. ..."Why would you accept an offer to be shipped back out?"

"Office job was getting too comfy?" He offers, leaning to get his teeth around the nylon string. There's a clip and dull tug. ..."Really it was South who wanted to get back out here. Top grade super soldiers, the thrill of assignments, really fucking awful survival odds. She's been chasing down a place like this for some time now." He lifts his head, those eyes perversely white under the fluorescence. "What kind of partner would I be letting her do all the chasing alone?"

North ties the finishing stitch and stands up, taking an alcohol wipe from the kit. You watch his fingers start to swab the needle clean. "They don't like accepting siblings."

"Because of their histories. I'm aware."

"Then you two were the exception. Ever wonder why?"

You aren't expecting it at all when he turns and his gaze towards you has gone hard and admonishing.

"Yeah. Pretty sure we both knew why."

..."You still took it though."

North vents a breath and returns his gaze to you, no longer defensive. "She'd have chased after something worse if I hadn't."

"What's worse than this?"

"In my book, plenty." The ends of his mouth part into a sorry smile. "Least this way I'll be getting to keep an eye on her."

 

***

"I would hardly would call it a complex."

"You seek to achieve. To consistently better yourself through victorious feats and success rates. Your assignment histories have shown-"

"Assignment histories don't hold the cards to how I think." You're suddenly having to fight the threatened register away from your tone. ..."Yes, I seek to achieve. We are trying to win a war. That's my objective. Our victory."

Humming turbines send residual vibrations through the leg of the chair you've settled in. It almost works as stress-relief for the all the muscles clenching within your legs. It's the Counselor's lack of expression that makes this feel all the more like a confrontation rather than a discussion.

"It is all well and good to set standards for yourself, Carolina. However, taking such enormous responsibilities upon yourself is a risk that no soldier of your credentials is liable to take. Remember that we are all only capable of so much."

"We certainly seem to be capable of re-spawning, Counselor. Why should I be worried?"

If he recognizes the growl you've laced into that, he refuses to let on. ..."Holding yourself accountable for the fatalities of former squadmates is unnecessary. Hardly a healthy example to be setting for the other Freelancers."

"You would have me forget about them." 

Price exhales and lowers back into his seat, fingers crossing to fold on top of his desk. "You've served in the marine corps. Can you count how many soldiers you have seen killed? How many you've killed? How many of them had names you are able to recall?" You say nothing, and he lets go of another deliberate breath. "The mind will forget, but that comes with time. For now, acceptance is what we require of you, Carolina."

"I have been at the top of my game..."

"Then imagine what you could be without an unnecessary burden."

They don't get that you remember some faces over the faces of former squaddies' because they were yours to instruct. No one has a hand in who stays or goes on the field, but you are now holding a position where the execution of orders have gotten men and women killed.

Calling something a burden means to victimize the person who carries it.

That's what they won't ever understand.

***

 

"Evening sunshine."

York's lofty greeting carries to your ears moments before he's dropping himself into an empty chair across the monitor panel. Ignoring his entrance you keep both eyes on the set of soldiers scuffling down below.

Connecticut has been training with you on top of these scheduled sessions. Utah wasn't notoriously known to be Alpha's leading freelancer, and the latest mission seems to have shaken him that much more. An equipment malfunction internals had said. ...They still don't know what happened to Georgia.

A heavy wave of aftershave suddenly rushes you as is York shoving off the deck monitor. Wheels slide across the metal floor, slowing, and then his chair has bumped into yours. There's something he's done differently to his hair, but you won't let on that you've noticed. He already has enough of an ego to float away on, Christ forbid you give him anything more to work with.

He reclines, moving his arm to brush yours and since it's only the two of you on the deck, you allow this. It's when he grows bold and tries draping his arm over yours that you decide to draw the line.

"Did you use the whole bottle?" You snark, drawing away.

York comes back at you with a wider grin. "Come on, you know you like it."

You crane your neck to look at him, exhausting a your utter despondency. You might hate the way those dimples pull as he smiles, and there's always too much product in his hair. His eyes are too nice. Too... falsely reliable. So you're not quite certain of when he started becoming more tolerable. Not much has changed since he had nearly died on your watch, or since discovering that there are these prickles that travel across your skin whenever be stands too close... There's been that.

"What are you doing, York?"

"Was I doing something?" He grins that dumb, idiot grin. "If I was doing something, wouldn't you know I was doing it?"

"Oh shut up."

"Yessir, Carolina, sir." He rolls in his chair, redirecting towards the window. "Looks like Connie's doing good."

Nod almost to yourself, going back to observing the agents down below. "She's been getting better. Utah's getting sloppy."

Leaning a little over the monitors, York's features clench into a wince as Connecticut delivers a particularly strong blow. "Somebody's gonna bump him. Odds are that the twins will be picking up those empty seats..." He swivels back. "Did you get the chance to meet 'em both?"

"I had the pleasure of making South Dakota's acquaintance when she interrupted my downtime last week. She rubs Maine the wrong way."

"Doesn't everybody rub Maine the wrong way?" He's smirking until your gaze settles and then he fumbles, clearing his throat. ..."Well I can't speak for the sister, but North seems pretty cool. We watched some Grifball highlights a few nights back. Son of a bitch is fucking good at Thirty-one... He let me trade back my social insurance number for a pen and a stick of gum."

"Sounds like someone's got a man-crush." You tease, lips twisting.

"You wound me." York brings a hand to his heart. "As if the universe doesn't know where my heart truly lies. Tis you I pine for, my darling Carolina. My unrequited love... Oh how you have me suffer-"

"York," It comes out quieter. "... Not now."  
  
Connie strikes Utah down with a pugil stick. F.I.L.S.S. declares the match when he makes no struggle to get back up, instead curling into a fetal position on the training room floor. Your hand is readily set over the intercom key. "F.I.L.S.S., please see to it Utah gets medical attention for that last hit."

"Medical personnel en-route, Agent Carolina."

"Thank you, F.I.L.S.S."

You push away from the monitor, feeling the frown on your face that's been growing more pronounced over the last few months. You can feel it now, even as those muscles begin to unclench and relax.

"You doing okay?"

The rotation of your neck is disconcerting, muscles and tendons stiff and hitching up. You might be overdue for a physical.

York's brow is also furrowed, only it adds emphasis to his features not age. The narrowed look of his eyes speaks volume.

"I know it's not like we asked each other much, but... Are you, alright? With everything?"

You let a sigh loose. "Can you keep your mouth shut when it counts, York?"

"I can try."

..."We keep losing numbers."

"At our rate they're getting replaced overnight."

"We're losing people."

"...Oh. Well, yeah." He murmurs, coming around slowly, all the lightness leaving his tone. "That was going to happen. Everything is volunteer. We all knew what we were in for."

' _What did you sign up for?_ ' you almost ask, glaring silently at your nails. The ends are rough and askew where you've been bitting them down. One more bad habit among many. ..."Right."

Down below, Utah has pried himself off of the floor. There's already a medic waiting off the platform from him, presenting something bright and orange in a clear-coated sandwich bag. Utah takes the ice pack on his limp past, and presses the bag directly to his crotch.

York's chuckles is under his breath. "Atta' girl Connie. She's gonna want to see the footage on that."

You feel a small swelling of pride as Utah staggers himself out of the arena, with Connecticut paced a little ways behind. "Better watch yourself, York. Give it a few weeks and she'll be knocking your ass."

"Nah, You know you'd miss me too much. I'm not going anywhere." This comes out a little too confidently, momentarily shocking the respond right out of you. His face warps up into a smile. That fucking smile. "Don't you go worrying about me, Lina."

..."You've misinterpreted something somewhere, York."

"All signals are loud and clear."

"You're an idiot."

"Am I your, idiot?"

"Don't touch me."

York lies back in his seat, still with that same grin. ..."Love you too, sunshine."

 

***

 

"I'm afraid that's all the time we have for today. Thank you for your candidness, Carolina. Should I be logging you in for a follow up?"

The pulse of the room has drilled a rhythm into your skull, swirling with loose ribbons of thought—

_'Atta' girl,'—_

_'Bitch'—_

_'what kind of partner'—_

_'— your, idiot?'...._

... "I can do mornings."

 

 

 

 

 


	5. chapter 4

 

 

"Fucking Christ on a tugboat,"

A lavender blur hisses through the air and collides with a locker across the row.

Mid swallow, your neck cranes half an inch to the left, folding your bottom lip and twisting the bottle shut.

South shoulders into the room with no shortage of force. Her arm swings up for her brow, swatting her side bangs and huffing as the air from ceiling ducts blow it right back into her eyes.

"I fucking hate Mondays."

In the row over, York props the door of his locker with an elbow. "You are aware that it's a Friday?"

Dragging fingers through a cluster of damp hair and scratching, South cocks her head. "Hey York,"

"Yeah?"

"Fuck yourself."

His snorts softly, flipping the shirt in his hands and facing down his row. ..."There's a nice girl."

Down the same isle as York, Connie keeps silent while unstrapping. Some of the heavier motions of her arms have gathered your attention. She almost starts when York knocks a fist against her shoulder.

"Hey, nice job out there." He attempts.

"She ate shit." South voices from the opposite row, never the one to expend empathy. "You probably didn't notice, ya know, with all the paint patching your visor."

York straightens up, looking over Connie and briefly to you. Reaching into his locker, he plucks out an old towel and clears his throat. "Hey, South? Getting any as of late?"

She has a water bottle to her lips, halting mid swallow.

"Yeah, what I thought. Shut up."

She snatches her helmet from the ground where it had rolled and lances it over the dividing row of lockers. York flips the towel over his shoulder and dodges wildly, skipping over the helmet and jogging back toward the shower stalls.

"Suck dill," She spits, dropping so heavily over a bench that metal braces around the room shudder.

"...Could've gone on living without knowledge of South's modus for masterbation." Connie muses, stripping down out of her body suit with her back rotating to miss the ugly look South throws past her.

"Point Connecticut," York calls over running water, and you move to follow him into the back.

You step up to a sink, glancing warily into the mirror. A coat of moisture already veils the reflection of what has only become a more pronounced scowl over the last year. You resettle over something that you still have varying degrees of control over. You take out the cold metal in your back pocket, adjusting under the light to look straight and be still. Tugging your hair loose from a band you drag your fingers through, creating a part. Bringing both the even bunches around your neck you run fingers up to an ideal point and hold them in place.

"What are you doing?"

The scissors nearly clip the nearest of your fingers.

..."York,"

"Sorry, I'm sorry.." He chuckles, pulling back behind the shower curtain. "What are you doing with your hair?"

You meet both fingers around the same length, scissor blades set. Sniping soundly, three inches of copper drop into the sink. "I'm cutting it."

Behind you, plastic flaps and half York's upper body twists out of the stall. "Why would you do that?"

"It's been getting in my eyes."

"Well, can't you just pull it back?"

Listening to him flounder causes this strange pull beneath your chest. "I'll keep enough so that it can still be pulled back... You do know that I've cut my hair several times before."

"Never in front of me. I think I would've remembered having to witness such an act of sacrilege," He grumbles, disappearing back behind the curtain. You're taking inches off up until his water stops running. York comes up behind you, the discoloured towel hugging his waist. He shuffles his way up to the sink as you slip the scissors away into a pocket, free hand drifting over the counter, folding around a collective lock that he holds up under the light.

..."Saddest thing in the world."

You reach over the counter and into the sink, gathering fistfuls. "Either you help me clean or you keep out of the way."

He sidesteps for you, that look of puzzled horror still plastered to his face. ..."You know that feeling you get dropping a full scoop of ice cream?"

"Oh shut up." The grin slips out as you push past his bulk. His hip grazes yours on the way out, a little too intendful to be passed off as coincidental.

Stepping out into the open row you come to an abrupt halt, because ahead down the row stands a face you fail to recognize.

He looks just about ready to back himself out the door until York swings out of the stall block behind you. Relief exhausts him and the man almost bends at his knees, releasing a nervous laugh. "...For a second there, thought I was in the wrong room."

From her place against the far row of lockers, South flicks her eyes at you and then back to this new face. Deliberate and slow, she swivels to square off with the man. ..."I'm thinking you still could be."

Before South can move into a more predatory stalk, Connie drops the towel she's been handling and rises off the bench. "You must be new here."

..."Uh, yeah. Yeah I am. I was on the clean up crew a few weeks-"

"Welcome to the big leagues," York crosses the room and stretches out an arm, the other supporting the towel draping his lower half. "I've complained, but they don't give out jackets."

Slack-jawed the rookie takes a beat to process York, taking him in, stained towel, dripping wet. Slow and mechanically, he takes York's hand. "...That's uh, no problem here."

York nods, and if he notices the recruit's eyes lingering it only enhances his mojo. "So what's your thing, man?"

..."My thing?"

"Yeah, your thing. What can you do?"

..."I can shoot?" He comes up with, unsure.

South snorts none too subtly, spearing the recruit's ankles to the cephalic region of his bronzed features with a glare. The muscles in his throat contract and pull.

"Who are you replacing?" She demands.

..."I wasn't told I'd be replacing-"

"My bet's on, Utah." She cuts in, redirecting her glare. "York, what say you?"

"I might put a couple Cubans on the blue hen state."

"Cubans? You swipe those too?"

Averting his eyes York bares a small flash of challenge in the smile for South. "Why don't you say that a little louder, that way F.I.L.S.S can hear everything loud and clear."

"Relax asshole, pretty sure even the dumb computer knows your petty theft is petty as shit."

Sensing this could has the potential to escalate you quickly take the moment to approach the recruit. "You're a transfer from Beta?"

Having recognized you as the commanding figure in the room, the recruit gives a stronger nod, straightening his spine. "Yes sir,"

"What was your position?"

"It tended to vary, sir."

"How did it vary?"

For a moment he looks nervous, sensing there's a right and wrong answer. "...We uh. We don't really, assign people. We just... New guys come up and we, shuffle."

South snorts. "...Well, there's that. York, I'll be changing my bet from replacement to logging error."

Connie, who's been observing quietly, releases a breath. "You'll have to excuse her. She hasn't slept right since they removed the horns and hooves."

"Point two, Connecticut,"

South strikes out from her seat, foot skimming the towel far too near his crotch and York launches back like a canon into lockers.

Seeming to recognize herself as the most approachable candidate available, Connie heaves a sigh. Stretches through the neck of her hoodie she straightens up, nodding to the door. "If you have the room number, I can show you where you'll be bunking."

Relief blooms in a flush over his face. "...That'd be great. Thanks." He says, stepping aside for her to lead the way.

It's silent for only a cleft between the fading out of their steps, then South is grinning.

"Ladies and assholes, welcome to Frosh Week."

 

***

 

It's not long before the rest of the team has their reservations. There are under qualified assets piling on the MOI without proper trial or testing.

Some believe it's a lapse in judgement, clever few figure otherwise... and you can tell them nothing.

It's should be more difficult trusting a man who has had you kill for the sake of killing, yet somehow you've managed it. Looking past the raids, the bombing runs, air drops, and strewn out corpses- He has kept you alive. He hasn't attempted to hinder your progression, granting you privilege after privilege to expand and become better.

So you follow orders when he gives them. When that means allowing necessary casualties.

 

***

 

"I've never seen any of them before in my life." Connie objects, rolling over on her back and prying at an unlaced boot.

"I need a name."

She looks at you from an angle, perfectly maintained brows twitching up. "So, you don't already know?"

"Would I be asking if I did?"

She shrugs lightly, brushing off the developing annoyance of your tone. "The kid's code name was Colorado. I didn't ask many questions."

"You didn't ask many questions?"

"I was trying not to scare her too much her first day." She defends, concentrated becoming relief as the boot comes loose. ..."Just another one of many. Why the sudden interest in rookies, boss?"

Because South isn't right all that often but she is in this. There are members of the last hand out that look like they should still be in a high school.

"I need to know who's joining and who's dropping."

She looks at you oddly, recognizing the threat balanced in your tone, tongue snapping the roof of her mouth. ..."If you wanted to do some background checking-"

"No." The response comes out a little too sharp. ..."No, I'm not that invested."

"I never suggested you were." She returns, fisting the hair gathered over her shoulder. ..."You gonna have York do the job instead?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugs gently, fingers sectioning out her hair into sets of threes. "I just notice things that's all."

"You notice too much."

"Possibly." She complies, tugging at a tangle. "...You made the bridge, all I did was cross."

"Mind your own business." The words leave your mouth in a growl. "Why I affiliate with people is my business."

"Sure, boss." She sighs, twisting on her side to reach an elastic band at the end of her cot.

"I don't want to hear that you've been hacking our network, Connie."

Her mouth moves and she snickers in her throat, flopping ungracefully onto her back, fingers still braiding. "Oh you can't even call that hacking. A five year old could work the terminals on this boat."

"I don't care what it's called, don't do it."

"I heard no complaining out of you when I checked out Maine's file."

"He put Indiana through a wall, we needed to know his credentials."

"So that justifies it? Once is okay. Do it again and you'll sell me out?." She knocks the pillow off the mattress, sitting up abruptly. "Put me on a fucking leash."

As a retort you reach over the bedstand and turn off the light, ignoring her taut silhouette. Dragging the sheet up to your chest you turn your back to her. "Goodnight, Connecticut."

It's a few minutes in that she huffs softly. Tonight you're facing away, eyes closed as Connie's cot shifts. Sheets rustling, she settles in and goes still.

"Carolina?"

Your chest swells with air. "What?"

..."If you catch me, you'll have to turn me in?"

Your eyelids flutter and seal, and you burry deeper into the cushion on your cheek. "So don't let me catch you."

 

***

 

These fresh batches have never been made to killed other human beings. A handful of them haven't put in the time at killing anything.

You've been granted access to service records and military profiles. At some point while reading, the names had blurred into numbers. It made for easier readings.

It's what they do that's everything.

What the majority might be lacking in additional finesse that could hold them a steady place on Alpha, they were are well versed in a multitude of backgrounds. Communications, intelligence, engineering, computer technology, weapon use, mechanics...

There's purpose here. There has to be.

 

***

 

There's a bowl of kettle corn on the floor, and most of it is no longer in the bowl.

You had heard the impact and let yourself in, hardly expecting what's among the spread of a mess over the rec room's saxony carpeting. Taking one look at his half shorn face you know you've passed the point of no return.

He makes a haggard attempt to get up from the couch and instead his body weight careens, sinking his way to the floor.

..."What in the hell are you doing?"

He squeezes his eyes shut for a minute, then shifts, slinging his weight over the couch and trying to tow himself back up.

..."It's Friday." He says, like it's something obvious that you've missed. "Time to get- fucked up... Wanna get fucked up, Lina?"

"This is a regular thing you do?"

Even in this state he seems to understand this tone. Realizing that he might be in trouble, he shrugs loosely and tries to flaunt a grin that comes across more like a cringe.

"...Once in a blue moon," He says, waving away absently. "South knows where to get the good stuff..."

You cover the remaining distance as he misjudges the gap between himself and the table and nearly falls into it. Grabbing at his shoulder and the back of his shirt, you guide him slowly back to the floor. "Christ, York..."

Digging his elbows into the frame of the couch, he hoists up onto his knees. "...Don't tell, South, okay?"

"She should be the least of your worries." You begin the process of picking a way through the kettle corn to the overturned bowl. "I should report you."

"...I'm feelin' real bad," He groans, reaching for his face like he's trying to hold himself still. His free hand reaches for the table and swipes at air, a backward stroke knocking the open bottle.

You grasp for it as it tilts, and a faint splash of the bottle's contents sloshes out over your wrist.

..."I'll finish later," He gets out, still holding onto his head.

Annoyance becomes exhaustion. Handling the bourbon you plug the cork back in, clamping it shut and moving it out of his reach.

York scoops a handful of kettle corn off the floor, pushing an obscene amount into his mouth. Twisting his tongue around the chewed up food, a frown begins to shape itself. ..."It's cold."

"Yes it is." You muse, glancing at the nearly depleted bottle. "It's been here as long as you have."

"Did I spill all this?"

"You did."

..."Mother fucker,"

"Uhuh," You grunt, offering out your hand. He sees the limb after a few moments of good staring, catching your forearm on the second try.

"Hey, Lina?"

"Yes, York."

..."One of the new kids, brought on a skate board."

Something jagged settles at the base of your stomach. "...That so,"

"...Think there's something up with that?"

For some entirely inexplicable reason, you feel that it might not be the recruit's judgement he's questioning.

You take the half empty bottle when his free hand goes to grab for it and stand with him. Winding an arm around his side you lead him towards the door, gripping part of his shirt when the rest of his weight doubles over you.

"Hey, Lina?"

"York?"

"When this is all done, would you let me buy ya a drink?"

Using the frame around the door for a minute, you readjust his weight before proceeding into the hallway. "...York, I'll let you buy me out a fucking bar if you'll help me out a bit here."

You spend the rest of the evening in locker room while Freelancer's top security specialist purges himself hoarse between the walls of a bathroom stall. Over that time he apologizes four times, proposes to you twice, and the rest is incoherent groans and croaks.

The hours pass and you occupy yourself with the questions you know you should have asked.

...There are a lot of things you haven't asked.

 

***

 

'They're dispensable', is what you finally work out of this.

Troopers don't need to be any form of extraordinary, experience isn't an absolute 'must'. What's important, is what they contribute and how well it can spare the lives of those of higher skill.

Spare only what you need, the rest go to the flames.

Withdraw your gaze from the untouched yet half-thawed hashbrown on your tray. You had already eaten when this breakfast was presented. A gift from a mortified locksmith trying to buy your silence through small favors. You haven't touched the supplement in the twenty minutes it's been in front of you, but when South had tried to snatch it over your shoulder you had snatched her wrist and clenched.

Aside from that brief interruption though, your mind has been actively redirecting itself from the team's early morning nonsense. Events of these last few days are stirring paranoia, but above the nerves and suspicion there is logic, calm and consoling. There's purpose. There's a grand scheme behind all this confusion and disrupt. With constant reminding, logic pulls through.

There's a small break of light through your periphery that you hardly pay any mind. A narrow split in the bristol is lined up with your tray, and one of your thumbnails has been gradually picking away at it. The sound of groaning metal that redirects your glare across the mess hall.

New recruits seem to be popping up like baby fucking bunnies.

This one is stark blond and pale as a slab of meat. Murmuring an apology to the collection of off duty physicists, he moves along with his head down. All the other tables he gives a wide berth, eyes to his feet and shoulders stiff, maneuvering through a sea of uninterested attendants. He keeps his eyes averted for the most part, but you catch the rest of his face under the next light, and it's the face of a nine-year-old.

You could have Connie get his name, though it feels there's little pressure. He'll end up at the end of one of your assignment reports soon enough.

"Hey, uh... Is it okay if I sit, here?"

Your body locks, suddenly attentive and interested in what's being said over your shoulder. That's Maine's table. Maine sits alone by choice, and this recruit has approached agent Maine while the latter is eating. Approaching the wolf with its kill.

When Maine doesn't acknowledge him your gaze tilts back, concerned that you might need to intervene for the unfazed rookie. Maine does something equally surprising and he shrugs. The recruit sets down his bowl and takes a seat across the table while you hold your breath.

"You think I'm pretty much fucked, huh?"

Maine continues eating, looming over of his food. He stuffs a piece of chicken into one cheek, fingers moving for his second. He shrugs, briefly looking up.

"Stupid," He corrects, his mouth full. "...You had an out. Didn't take it. You're stupid."

"This was the 'out', asshole." The recruit retorts, picking out a Wheat 'o from his bowl and crunching it between teeth. ..."Selection wasn't really multiple choice. So what, having trouble making friends?"

"Still. Stupid." Maine mutters, ignoring the joist.

..."I didn't figure there'd be so many guys out here."

"Give it a week." Maine replies between chews.

The recruit adjusts himself on the bench, gaze dropping back to his Wheat o's. A small portion of his chest rises and falls as he picks up his plastic spoon and dips it in, oblivious to your interest. He goes on stirring the little clusters of wheat rings until they're all thoroughly doused then lets the spoon to settle. Reaching down into a pocket he pulls out a little bag of something muted and gold. He takes the spoon between his teeth, peeling at the edges of the bag and shaking some of the gold particles out over his cereal. It takes him a moment to sprinkle the desired amount over his food, then another to realize Maine is staring.

He stops mid sprinkle, looking from Maine back to his small bag of sugar. Communication between them in appears nonexistent as he shifts his weight a little over the table and if you weren't seeing it for yourself you wouldn't have believed it. Maine puts his cupped hand out across the table and the recruit shakes some sugar into his palm.

Maine draws back and dumps the small mound into his mouth, and you continue to watch him and the rookie you would learn to be his latest roommate converge well until the end of the break.

...You need to learn his name.

Because the type of rookie who brings his own sugar on board a military vessel, is the same type that brings cookies.


	6. chapter 5

 

Make a note to yourself to watch, Wisconsin.

She darts across the already croaking beams of this building's paramount level, charcoal against alloy, shredding up piles of sooted snow in her trek. Security cameras skip her trajectory and have to recalibrate.

She's clear in the time it takes the nearest one to swivel.

Swallow your frustration, easing weight back from the balls of your feet. Ducked with you along the wall, Wyoming hisses,.

"Clear." Wisconsin reports, lazy and smug.

Wyoming adjusts his position to flip her off.

Ignoring the both of them you reach for your com. "Don't move like that without my say so."

"I'll move however I goddamn want."

Sucking in long and hard, "I don't know what you're use to, agent, but on Alpha-"

"This isn't Alpha. I didn't spend six hours in transit packed like sardines for some little hotshot to be bitching at me left and right. Like we all don't know this was a jump-on on your part."

"Are you seriously complaining?"

"Sweetie, now where'd you get that from?" She presses a hand over the tape on her helmet, lowering to a crouch. The thick strip of black conceals her trademark maroon streak, allowing her to better blend with the earth and ash. "I'm just a little miffed over being bumped from head bitch to boss's bitch. Know what I mean?"

Wyoming lets out a wounded grunt. "Have I been bumped?"

"You'll be back up for Bravo soon as we're through here, Wisconsin. Take it as motivation."

"I'll do my best, number-fucking-one."

Wyoming sighs. "Do you see what I put up with?"

Press your back to the wall to glance down the ramp of hallway suspending this half of your team from the ground. After a moment's resolve press a digit to the side of your helmet. Radio interference clears and you speak. "Washington, report."

Communication is tricky due to deficient connection outreach in the area. It takes a few beats of static before a response can come through.

"On ground level now. Maine's been tiptoeing around potholes."

Another crackle of static opens your team channel.

"Not true." Maine grunts, grated against interference.

"He was watching 'Chernobyl diaries' last night,-when did I tell you it's radioactive? We're in full fucking body armor."

"Shut up."

"You jump puddles like a five-year-old girl,"

"Boys," Wisconsin growls in before you can. "Hurry it up."

"Yeah okay, we're com-uhmp! _Fuck!_ "

Maine's short but audible snort through your headset eliminates any of the alarm Washington's little fumble induces.

..."There's some black ice down here."

Maine sends his closing commentary through text. <'Haha.'>

Nearly dancing a path to another less than consolidated ramp, Wisconsin scoots herself back up to an area pillar horizontal from yourself and Wyoming.

"Stupid kid," She disgorges under her breath, prying out a roll of black tape from the pack over her thigh. A sliver of wine red is exposed over her leg and she has the tape to cover it. She catches the tilt of your helmet and offers out the ring, balancing it on her index finger. Watch until she draws back, realizing her fault. "Oh yeah. Forgot you've been getting all the neat shit."

"Down below." Wyoming murmurs, regathering your attention. Following his gaze you track the faint silhouette of Washington bringing fluidity to the ashen grounds. At his flank, Maine serves as an island among opaque space. A startled yelp deflates the illusion of proficiency as Washington nearly gives himself another face full.

Wyoming bumps his shoulder to yours, shifting with his rifle. "They do make quite the spectacle don't they? Isn't it pleasant to be under the comforting guise of security..."

"Can't get too comfortable." You interrupt, fisting the vacant grenade clip against your leg. "We're not completely off radar. ...They'll be reprimanded tomorrow."

The facility was scoped out prior to infiltration, swept for occupancy and radiation. Fatal fallout levels detected. Zero human activity. Means nothing. There had been something disquietingly shady about the coordination done for this evening's operation in an uncharted nuclear site of Northern Tribute. Maine and Wyoming to cover the plains, Wisconsin and Washington for facility grounds. Unified to blend with elements.

You do it all the time with an extra mod. Not duct tape.

Be serious though. Why else did you join?

...Because an undercover op where infiltration is done by someone other than York seemed like a good thing to sign on to?

Washington's signal alerts to his ten meter proximity, beating blue over your hud's deck. Maine's holds up just below the stationed mark, ice crackling where he is below.

"You had better go join our brontosaurus in a china shop." Wisconsin mutters.

Wyoming balances his rifle in the crook of his arm. "I believe the expression to be... Buggar it." His helmet spares what lingers of a glare in her direction then turns with his shoulders poised. "Be sure to keep the children in line while I'm indisposed."

You hear the small note of cautioning behind his jeer and when he passes your hand reaches out briefly to his shoulder.

Wyoming has just started down the nearest fire escape to dispatch himself when Washington passes at a jog up the rails. The structure trembles from the pressure of so many bodies together. He lifts a hand as an assuaging gesture of greeting, that strip of tape dangling limp over his streak. The wide unveil of yellow makes you want to cry for humanity.

Releasing an exasperated sigh, Wisconsin moves up before he can react and shoves the masking tape into his chest piece.

"Fix it." She growls.

He manages to hold onto the roll and keep both his legs plant.

"Jesus, would think you were just pulled from basics." Wisconsin snarks in a harsh crescendo, moving past a little too suddenly for him to avoid being jostled by the bulk of her. Again, the threat of vexation forms against your sternum.

Washington shifts his mark VI visor your way, a subtle slump of submission in his stance. Allow your fingers to skim the steel crafted barrel of pistol holstered at your thigh.

"Keep up."

You're given a light nod, the muted tension still palpable in the air.

Something you've noticed? He watches his step around you. Understandable, given that you've made no effort towards approaching him over the three weeks since his placement on board.

Maine likes him. North and York have nothing but good things to say. Connie speaks like she's expecting him to be hauling through this longterm.

"We movin' or what?" Wisconsin demands, already a ways ahead.

Your rifle switches hands and when you move it's purposeful and measured. Washington keeps himself close behind you, taking the same amount of caution over loose rafters.

"She's not usually like this." He murmurs, visor trained to Wisconsin's back as you let him move past. "Could just be she's having a bad day."

"We all have bad days." You retort.

He locks up like he hadn't expected to get a reaction out of you, then he quickens his pace. Very swiftly Washington's ahead with Wisconsin, and keeping very much to himself.

...

_"Man, you're a drag."_

_"What!? What's wrong with apples?"_

_"Nothing's wrong with apples. Them being your favorite, therein lies the problem."_

_"Trembling to hear the logic behind this one..."_

_"The foods you eat are a reflection of what's up with you! Apples mean watered down, dull beneath the roughage... Fucking easy to bruise."_

_"That is... So stupid."_

_"Not stupid man. Science. Pink Ladies, Granny Smith... Jesus, Wash."_

 

_...._

 

Wash.

_Wash_

Another puppy name.

Wash and Connie. Lina...

-"Why do you think number one's nosing around one of our ops? Fuckin' here to upstage, that's what it is, all it fucking is... I'll bet it's what we're collecting. They said this was a data run. Yeah right. Bull fucking shit."

The trilling imprints of fingers on metal set your pulse into a rhythm.

"Feels like we're here for data. The Director probably just sent her to oversee-"

"I'm here to fucking oversee. She's here to shove her weight around."

Listen to her pacing, Washington's padded fingers slowing their drumming down to an uneasy thumb against the cheap bristol of desk.

"Fucking recruits take spots, we go through the mill, come out jacked enough for 'em to slip in and sneak by. Fucking, fuck, fuck. Could you possibly work any slower, Washington?"

"Yeah, actually."

A lapse of tentative drumming follows and you're listening when it cuts off.

"You wanna repeat that, kid?"

..."Nah, I'm good."

"How is consummation coming?"

Washington's entire body jerks when you announce yourself in the room. ... "Nearly there." He replies, missing the sharp redirection of Wisconsin's visor. "Interference is holding off well."

You nod curtly, stepping a little more into the hub of humming monitors. Before you're even half the distance across, Wisconsin is rigid and upright. Freeze as she sets herself in motion, the tension in your limbs constricting. She mutters something of waiting from the next flight and breezes past.

"I've got it." Washington alerts, looking back over his shoulder and straightening. His motion unveils the entirety of the monitor screen for you. Again, he almost staggers out of your way when you move up to inspect for yourself.

_"Have you never had a baked apple?"_

_"That only sounds every type of disgusting."_

_"You don't know what you're talking about, they're fantastic. Cinnamon sugar, clumps of butter... Have you ever tried-are you laughing?"_

..."What kind of data run is this, boss?"

Let your gaze check over the schematics Washington has pulled up, still and unresponsive. He shifts his weight as you close your fingers around the drive and pluck it out. Slip the unit into a dock to your helmet and data immediately fills out the frame before your eyes, a multitude of patterns, algorithms and frames of schematic equations. The dome. A plasma field had been engineered to wrap around this facility's fallout zone and protect locals from being exposed to radioactivity before evacuation could take place. The designs light up before your eyes.

Stealing multi-million dollar tech designs. This has been a frequent form of operation.

Over on your blind side Washington stands, awkward and compliant.

_"Fuck you York..."_

_"Fuck me- fuck deserts! I'll just go eat my MRE and cry a little."_

"Carolina, 73 percent toxic reading in here." Wisconsin alerts from Bravo's team channel. "Time's almost up. We should go."

Step back to allow Washington the room to go on ahead. Notice that he takes particular care not to bump you on his way past. The iron planks groan under the added weight of armor, and Washington takes it slower over the more vocal steps. His meticulousness gets you thinking.

How awful it'd be to admit, and even more so that you've been feeling this way at all... The lightness, his attention to detail and the ease of simply being around someone without a clearly cut function.

Watch Washington checking his angles on rotation every handful of seconds, Wisconsin with her sensors clocking radioactivity.

Is it what they are? All that you are?

A low rattle pangs of the walls as Washington clears the final few steps in one length bound. Wisconsin's visor trails his as he recovers himself, then vents a very played up sigh.

"Wyoming and Maine already flagged in a pick-up. I took the liberty of hailing our cab."

"Good." You appraise, taking lead point when she continues her stand-still pose. "Toxicity levels?"

"From the last minute and thirty seconds?"

Wisconsin swivels with you, and under that much mutual condescension Washington actually staggers back.

"I didn't mean- I just, I'm... I'm sorry?"

Wisconsin's neck slants in what conveys an overly exhausted eye roll. "I would like you not to talk for the rest of this trip. Sound too difficult?"

Washington's visor reflects a glare off of the snow blanketing outer grounds of the plant as he gives you both a highly alert double nod.

 

* * *

 

 

 

"What did you think you were you doing?"

"...Right now? Trying to shave my face."

Jerk the toothbrush out of your mouth and ignore his affronted sound when you nearly spit out over his arm. "What the hell were you doing last night?"

"Everything's still a bit sore, Lina. Give me one more night and I'll be all rested up."

"Sometimes I wonder if you're choosing went to be an asshole."

"Sounds like you're needing a bit of sleep too..."

"No fucking shit, and we have a mission scheduled at 0800. You need to be sober, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

The razor held in his front row of fingers hesitates over a half grown patch of bristle. "Well what do you think it is, Lina? I get scheduled for an average of six runs for every four weeks. Lost five rookies the last month alone."

"And I've ran eight. Lost nine. Those are just numbers."

His wrist flicks almost spastically, releasing the razor enough that it clinks the side of the sink and plummets into the water.

"Those numbers use to make you sick,"

"Oh and whatever happened to, 'they signed up'? They're prepared for the payload."

"That was before the payload hit the fan and we started recruiting draftees, Carolina!"

You give him time to recover, for his pulse to ease and shoulders to stop shaking. One of his hands reaches down into the sink and plucks up the razor. The blade is missing so he muffles a curse.

"Don't feel the need to check up on me, alright?"

"Don't get drunk off your ass at four o'clock in the morning and we won't have any problems."

..."How else do you want me to say that I'm sorry?"

His eyes look at you through the mirror, tired and conflicted. Under these lights, half his face scruffed and hungover, you think he looks a little bit older than his age.

The revelation doesn't feel like victory.

 

* * *

 

 

You were told it was clean.

Plant was swept. Zero activity. Atrocious radiation levels.

Zero. Fucking. Activity.

The first shot rings through the air and leaves your entire skeletal structure rattling. Meters in front of you, Wisconsin's knee buckles and nearly gives under her.

Your sensors calculate the sniper's movement even as a blinding beam of light touches down from the roof of the main office block. Armor fades from black into blue and you grab Washington by the scruff of his collar. The bullets fly past and your body drives a path at 16kmh off behind one of the above ground engines among the turbine mill. Skid out of the light through earth in a fury of limbs, loosening your grip for Washington to scramble out from your weight. Heart pulsating, he presses himself back against the broken engine block with a hiss.

Wisconsin has managed to skip out of the line of fire, vaguely visible under the search light. Behind a low line of scrap metal, she's adjusting the scope of her sniper rifle, the end of a biofoam needle jutting out the back of her injured leg. The chin of her visor darts in your direction, giving a firm but frantic jerk up. Following her gaze up into the rafters you see them.

Eight, nine, thirteen...

"I thought this place was cleared out months ago!"

Washington's confused alarm pulls tediously below your chest, diaphragm constricting as your eyes continue over the length of the condemned facility. Turret docks armed, built-in armed guard station points... the rest of the sounds coming from places hardly visible in the dark... Jesus...

"We need to retreat." The admittance sounds jagged against the back of your teeth. "Rest of the team is long gone- Wisconsin,"

"I've got this!" She snarls through her headset.

"You've got a shattered knee cap and a leak in your armor. Toxicity levels?"

"Slim to none in my suit- we can take them!"

Washington lowers himself against the alloy he's pressed to, helmet craned methodically towards you. He doesn't know you're able to monitor his vitals, or that his pulse rate has escalated from 96 to 140 from little more than a minute out in the open.

"No, we can't. Keep trying to get a hold of our transport."

Vocalizing her aghast at your decision, the shadow that is Wisconsin twists onto her stomach and fires off a round at the above deck.

"We're going to run." You decide aloud, Washington's body scrunching soil behind you. "Keep up."

..."Right." He murmurs and you're on your feet.

Without the mod propelling you, everything feels mundane. Up to the airing of gunfire. The next turbine is inbound as your heels grind into levels of ground that you can't see. Washington redirects his weight, barrel rolling into cover moments behind you. Heavy breaths fill your headset.

Resisting the physical urge to keep as near to the ground as possible, you follow a rusted pipe winding from an old fuel tank into the open and lean out. That slightest of movements has the weapon fire redirecting again, and you have to skirt back as a round of bullets come at you, a few better shots pinging off the turbine's encasing.

Your heart is palpitating. An error. That's all it is. Bravo is of value. Bravo is second best. ...Bravo consists of a wannabe head sniper under radiation poisoning and a very young, ready for evac, Washington.

You have to kick his ankle twice before he jerks into facing you. He follows the angle of your visor to his hip, doing a sort of dazed double take over the frag grenade still clipped in place. Grab his wrist when he starts to go for it.

"On my say so."

His wrist goes limp and you let go, eyeing him closely as you activate an uplink. "Do we have an evac running?"

..."They're backed up. Security's back online. They don't want to cause anymore of an ordeal bringing out more guns." Her snarling scrapes at your ear piece. "Fuckers are telling us to wait it out,"

Something sloshes at the pit of your stomach. "How long?"

"They didn't give anything definitive. My guess...anywhere from forty to an hour." Her voice lowers into the end of her reply. ..."I might be in trouble,"

Armor shifts a little too sharply against the tank and you close a hand around Washington's chest piece, forcing him to be still. "Can you run?"

"Like an old hooker. I'd rather not risk anymore holes... and the leak I've got ain't doing a thing to thrill me."

"Draw fire. We're coming to you."

To your nod Washington reaches for his grenade, handing it over without a beat.

"On my mark."

He nods, gathering up for the sprint.

Listen for Wisconsin's assault, fresh shells resounding from above. Pull the pin and thrust the frag up into the air toward the rafters.

"Break!" You order, and throw yourself out into the open under an orange starburst of blaze and smoke.

A strange feeling of calm needles in. Residue from the expended grenade pelts the side your armor as you bolt from the light. No need for calculation. Half the distance across the yard and you hear it. A dreaded percussion tremors through your frame to rest near the base of your skull as you recognize the sound of chain fire somewhere in the dark.

The spray of alloy comes from a turret docked on ground level. Cloaked by the vessel's shadow and nearly tucked away next to the engine room, the frightful weapon rests, along with those operating it. Too suddenly, the train of it alters course. Release of capsules pelt the air and the mouth of the gun has refaced over you.

The speed mod saves your life.

"No no no, no!"

Wisconsin's screaming shoves a new kind of terror down your throat and in mid sprint you swivel.

Several of the rounds have cut through him, and you look in time to watch four more bust through the silicon and Kevlar guarding his low chest and torso. Washington hardly makes it an added foot before his impact to the dirt.

Force yourself to move as the gun redirects.

Behind her barrier Wisconsin is cursing, unaware the channel between you remains open.

Run with your eyes on the ground. The spotlight turns and you catch of glimpse of where Washington was felled. Low to the ground and below the spray of chain fire. You track it when one of the groundsmen drops onto her stomach, sniper train redirecting for the precise shot. Follow the angle of it, to where Washington struggles on his back.

Without beat your rifle has hoisted to interrupt the shot. The sniper's body jerks violently as your bullets pepper the upper half of the chest. A brief scream sounds and cuts off as your rapid fire marks through windpipe, disconnecting the head from throat with a dark spray to the snow.

Wisconsin is making herself hoarse shouting, redirecting her hostility from your downed teammate to the lines of increasingly intrepid guards. The grey coating of her armor has become speckled with red.

Washington's readout is a solid warning. Toxicity levels climbing. From where you are, you can hear as he chokes. When the light hits moves over him again, you spot the split down his visor.

"Stupid kid," Wisconsin half moans. "Stupid, fucking stupid kid. Fuck!"

The disconnected helm of the sniper lies adjacent, near the wall of men Wisconsin has been gunning down. She screams out a warning too late over the gunfire, because you're already moving. Rounds shave the air above your head, a misleading warmth against the cold. One cuts the back of your calve and you nearly trip over a recently disowned sniper rifle.

It takes a good few seconds for the line-up to reestablish visual, and in that time you've made the mad dash. Dirt tears up under your knees as you skid through the earth in a cocktail of blood and marrow fluid. Your hands run over the dismembered body, flipping off the helmet's seal. Sounds grow distant, the heat of metal on your skin blurs into a dullness of contact.

On the way up something solid punches through a shoulder, but your legs are carrying you. Slabs of muscle constrict, tenuous around the meat of your calf. Scramble on your hands and knees through the frosted dirt. Another solid skims the bicep tissue of your right arm and nearly causes you to lose grip of the helmet.

Washington's outline tries very hard to roll as you kneel over him, full stomach of lead keeping him pinned. His body reflexively sucks a mouthful of air and collapses into a fit of violent chokes. Faster than feasible you have either sides of his head, fumbling with the clasps keeping his helmet to the throat piece.

His gasp against the cold is cut short, unable to do much more than flinch when you lean in to run the bioscan. Red infused with blonde. Your hands fumble for the compartment over your hip, finding your shot of biofoam and taking no beat between tearing the safety tab and jamming the needle point through to his abdomen.

His mouth trembles but no sound comes out, eyes nearly rolling back into his skull from the fresh pain. You grab his face as he starts to slump and clap hard enough to startle his eyes into slow focus.

"...Boss,"

He sounds so fucking young with his throat gnarled against the toxins he's breathing, when he's bleeding out into a plateau of frost and earth. You have the fresh helmet in hand before his has rolled in dirt, shoving it down over his head and sealing it up.

That first breath under isn't strong enough. The visor isn't tinted and you can see his eyes starting to wander out of focus. You can't move him. You can't because that could be his marrow in the dirt. His breaths are muffled but you can see through the visor as he shudders, another four rounds hissing over your back.

Wisconsin screaming at you to move.

_-goes on stirring the little clusters of wheat rings until they've been thoroughly doused ..._

Blood has been filling the hollow of Washington's mouth. His neck falls sideways as he chokes wetly and you stop yourself from reaching to hold him. The turrets grow louder and your body is exposed, and only Wisconsin's resistance is keeping death at bay.

"Fucking _move_ Carolina! God _damnit!_ "

But you're thinking of golden sugar, of Maine's last text, the smirk in Connie's, 'son of a bitch could take an eye out in fucking free fall'...

"They're coming for us." You hear yourself speaking to him, only it doesn't sound like you. "Extraction's on the way."

Washington's gaze is dull now, but he stares up, tries to see through the thickness of the smog. ..."Think I messed up," Check the oxygen filtering through his suit, know exactly where those sixteen simultaneous pounds of lead have wedged into coils of his organs and abdominal tissue.

"No." Spread an arm over the length of his and grip the material around his upper wrist, clenching him hard as the first punch of metal alerts a ripple of nerve through your upper back. ..."-No. You did good."

Alarms are blaring, flashing against your eyes and sending electrical color through to your skull. Toxicity readings in your suit continue to climb, the bitter breeze sending tingles of shock through broken flesh. You don't move.

Wisconsin's swearing.

Washington's breathing.

Blood in the air, rich and copper, and something is hot...

Something is _burning_.

They'll come...

A warmth you would rather not identify travels down the slope of your back, settling in a pool formed of skin and kevlar. Your body begins to fold and you try to fold it around Washington.

...A fog of breath expands against your visor, and there's none in Washington's. You think you see blood running down his eye, can't tell which one. ...Think you can just about taste the copper...

Next time, you'll have York share some booze with you.

...

 

 


	7. chapter 6

 

  
You're the first to be let out.

Well, one wouldn't really say you were 'let' out, because few have ever had the ability to coerce you into doing anything.

You've been granted an easy break. At the moment there are more pressing cases to take care of.

Recovery's waiting room is poorly lit in comparison to the adjoining corridors. Fluorescent beams pour down the halls, casting a weak procession of light from all angles. It's quarter after three in the am and they keep threatening to lock up. An attendant keeps coming over to check up on you and ask if you'd like a pillow. Every fifteen minutes or so, you tell him that you're not tired. You led your team into a fray of hell to which they very nearly didn't make it out of. Four new holes in your back and a splint around your leg won't allow you the rest. Because when evac had finally arrived and you set to work packing your back with biofoam, Wisconsin was near the haul of the craft, retching up what you had her ingest.

It would've been better had she screamed. If she'd had the intent of breaking you open with her bare fists. That you would've known how to deal with. She had carried Washington for you with her arms still shaking. It had striped you down to the core when she finally dropped both knees to the floor of the pelican and started heaving up blood.

It hadn't felt as though you were leaning, but coming back to what's current you're pressing into the wall of soldier resting on your left, and Maine isn't shrugging you off.

Swallow and your throat feels raw.

Between everything that aches, the foam packed between your ribs, and the gauze clotting up craters, it's the blood crusted around the tips of fingers. The way it's drying into creases of skin. When your gaze settles you're scoping the underside of your nails. A wave of nausea. You fold those hands into each other, an attempt at concealing the overabundance of rookie spoils. You look across the ward instead, scanning up and down the window dividing this room from the observatory. From here you study what looks like a line of handprints smudged in the glass.

The clock draws up quarter to four, Maine's shoulder rolling under your jaw.

\---

"-just gotta leave it alone for a little while. Things'll start to even out."  
  
"I really try to give you the benefit of doubt, York. Please don't tell me you believe it was a fluk in communication."

You're not exactly sure when either of them got back, following the shadow train of a profile casting out from the hallway. You recognize the side of a foot, though York himself is tucked out of sight behind the doors.

"It's the first fuck up they've had, cut 'em a break Connie."

"The 'fuck ups', don't happen here. Thought you knew that by now."

His inhale is deep, and nothing follows.

"We don't fuck up security to the extent of aborting a mission. Had Carolina not been there..."

"Well she was there."

"And look where we are."

There's a break in the conversation as some sort of cart rolls down the corridor. Your foot slides, brushing against Maine's but he remains still. When they recommence in muted tones you're listening.

"I don't like talking like this,"

"If you didn't want to hear my complaints then you shouldn't have ask about them."

"You wanted to see Wash,"

"They won't allow me in if they didn't let Maine."

"Well I'm gonna check in on the rest of 'em. Are you coming?"

"Tell Maine that I'll be back in a few hours."

"Hey," York calls out, gentler, as if she's already set to walk away. "It's gonna work itself out, alright? You've gotta trust a little."

Through the brunt of metal, you're almost certain that she softens her words.

..."I'll do my best."

You haven't heard to doors creak but Maine is suddenly moving and you find yourself straightening back into an upright position. York bends round the corner into the room and without having to be asked, Maine has hoisted himself out of the seat next to you. He veers off a little ways away from the visitor's section, not sharing even a subtle exchange as York crosses his path.

Still trying to hold the silence of the room, York eases his weight into the chair next to you. Out of his armor he reflects the picture of anonymity, wearing only track clothes that hang loose. The t-shirt scoops enough to show the start of a fresh row of stitches crossing down his chest.

... "Hey there, Lina."

"York." You release as a breath, dropping your gaze all the way down to his socks. ..."Aren't you going to ask?"

He exhales too, leaning back into the seat and moving his neck away across to your view of the windows. "Figured you'd already be tired enough from telling people to jackoff in a corner and mind their own business."

"You would be correct." You agree, bearing a false lightheartedness. "How long have you been back."

"'Bout ten, fifteen minutes ago. Patched ourselves up in transit, had an easy time of it."

"Well wonderful." That comes out too bitter, and you don't have the energy to expend on the words to mend it. Thankfully, York seems to get it.

"You did your job."

"I know what I did."

"You don't feel right about it."

You leave that, verging on a pulpit between crosses of irritation and anger. When his shirt rustles and an arm moves around your shoulders the instinct is to pull back. It's your body that betrays you. His side offers a security you don't need, yet you're wilting into it all the same. An exhale has his chest rising against your shoulder.

"We're okay you know. Everybody came back kicking,"

"York stop it."

His neck cranes, chin touching the back of your head. "You don't have to pretend like it all doesn't affect you."

"How am I'm pretending?"

A hand closes on your arm, lightly squeezing. The lights of recovery have grown dull now, shadows fading against the walls. Realize that York has your weight over his chest and maybe you shouldn't be where you are...

"Would you let me take you back to your room?"  
  
"I'm staying here." You voice that quickly. "... I have to be here."

His mouth folds into a nod, taking in your tone and stretching to unwind his arm. Bracing himself over his knees he leans from his seat. Consider that you're seated closely enough to notice the fresh marks up his arms. Smudges of red and purple, particularly dark where the armor plates are most susceptible to hits. You're watching his fingers hang, able to identify every small twitch.

"Tell me what happened during infiltration."

The way his shoulders sag indicates that he had expected the question sooner or later.

"Nobody got maimed, or anything. We got the specs alright." He murmurs, reaching to rub at a patch of stubble. "On the way out there was some trouble. Had to call in the twins for an assist."

"How was Connie?"

He looks to put a little more effort into this smile. "She did good. Real good. There were just too many there for only the pair of us. She's been beating herself up pretty well... Then she's gotta come back to this." His words lower into a softer octave. ..."Been a bad week."

"At the end of a bad month." You murmur, the compliance with him feeling almost alien in origin.

When Maine pushes away from the far wall and braces himself into the crook between, you watch his arms fold.

...There was this dog, the first house you lived in growing up.

It was a stray, but you named it, and fed it and gave it the pillow from your bed to sleep with. Everyday it would wait for you to come outside and every morning it'd be watching through the front windows for you, all rancid and parasite ridden and astoundingly happy just to see you. ...Until the day it wasn't.

Remember the searching and calling, and your father out with a flashlight in the middle of the night. Your mother explaining that sometimes the ones we love have to go away.

_"We don't forget, we never stop cherishing the memories they've given us, but we decide what we can take away from them and we move on."_

Maine hardly reminds you of a dog, but he waits like his best friend might not be coming home.

"How old is he?"

The question hangs in the air for a moment before York realizes you've spoken. Even still, he stares for a good moment or two.

"How old is who?"

You push up a little in your seat and cross your legs, adjusting to confront. "I tell Connie not to do it, but you... You have a malleable alibi. You've checked back logged data, robbed from private storage cells..."

"Easy, easy listen. I only do what I do to make sure we're alright where we are. Sure I do get curious sometimes-"

"You've stolen from medical staffroom freezers."

"-and I get hungry sometimes."

"You've seen every file I have and then some, York."

His bodily reaction is stupidly guilty, like he's fourteen and you've just caught him searching through porn.

"Ah, more or less I guess. Yeah."

"Well, I would like to see them."

There's a beat between where he's unreadable, then there's a very small hint of smirk starting up the side of his face. "You do care don't you?"

"You know you can leave, York."

"I think you want me to stay."

"You don't have any fucking clue the things I want."

He relaxes into a slouch, sitting still and staring in a way that has you wanting no more then to prove he's bluffing. That he doesn't know why you feel the way you do, doesn't care to know. York sighs and sets the fine hair follicles of your arm alight. The chair shifts as lifts himself up, casually swinging one of his arms and then pulling his lips like it hurts.

"Nineteen."

Your eyes quit tracking his shoulder, moving to his face.

"He'll be nineteen next month. On the sixth." His face is an empty pallet of lacklustre. "We should, get drinks or something. ...What's the legal age? It's like, fifteen right?"

He leaves down the same corridor from which he entered. An impulse to get up and go after him is fleetingly, and extinguished by the horrible feeling of developing depth in your throat.

Maine lowers himself down next to you some point during the night, and his body serves as a stand for yours when the feats of the day finally catch up. When you wake up and don't immediately feel a haze of fatigue overhead, there is a tray on the table nearest to you. Coffee and bags of defrosted toaster-pancakes with plastic tubs of butter and jam stacked alongside.

You've finished the coffee when Maine wakes up. He downs half an thawed cake, coated in butter and two before that to form a jam sandwich when a nurse comes to tell you they've patched the hemorrhage.

* * *

 

"Is this a trick? This feels like it should be a trick."

"Legit. Keys to the fourth floor's private bathroom are yours, if you can down the whole thing."

"Swear to it."

York rolls his eyes and shifts his body towards yours. "Kid, I swear. There are even witnesses present."

Wash still frowns, concentrating it on York like he could still catch him breaking form. It's oddly endearing, how he still can't quite tell when he's being fucked with.

...."Give me your electric razor."

"What do you need with a razor?"

"Shut up! Razor or there's no deal."

"Alright, calm down. You're among friends, you've absolutely hit puberty- You'll get the razor, only on the condition that everything goes."

"Oh it'll go."

Maine's arm is nearly on yours, from your place at the end of the table. You feel it as a breath passes through his build, and as it's followed by a low groan.

"Glad to know you have faith in me, ol' buddy." Washington retorts, tracking the wide white tube of toothpaste as York slides it across the table. "Not my first rodeo."

York guffaws. "You were one of those kids that ate the playdough weren't you?"

"I never did that."

You cast a side glare, swirling the lone teabag inside your mug in a circle. "York shut up. You've prepared cereal with classroom glue."

Wash's brows, hopelessly in contrast to the color of his head, jerk as though they've been magnetized. He does a full 180 from your end of the table to York's. "He did what?"

"That, was unintentional."

"Oh it was, was it?" You pause the stirring to lean further into the table. Maine taking a slight uncouth mouthful of Coke breaks the visual threat you would have otherwise established. "Do you want to tell them what really happened?"

"I can't seem to recall..."

"Would you like me to refresh your memory?"

In perfect synchronization to York's light dismissal is Wash's delighted goading. York shooting his boot under the table to knock yours settles the intent and you set your mug aside.

"You've been made aware on countless occasions that York is an ass."

"That has been widely acknowledged. Please continue." Wash encourages.

"So around a year ago, York launched an extremely stupid gag week, where he laid out and set various booby traps and tricks around and inside everyone's private quarters."

"They were _not_ stupid,"

"They were stupid," You pause to take a sip of your tea. -"It was all incredibly stupid, and you fucked yourself over."

Wash makes to sit like he's at the edge of his seat, scooting to the right when York tries to kick from under the table.

"One of the intelligent people he had aimed to punk in particular, decided it'd be pretty entertaining to get him back. So we go on leave, York picks up his milk and double stuffed Oreos-"

"Since when do you have Oreos?!"

"You're gonna twist this to make me look like an idiot." York objects, glaring into you and it's almost too much to resist.

"Let's think about this York." You reposition your elbows so that they're bracing outward. "Would this really be the greatest of anecdotes from my invested stockpile to ruin you with?"

Washington guffaws and Maine shakes his head, sliding his coke over to bump your mug.

"You have a stupid laugh, Wash." York grouses, openly scowling. "Come on, Lina, they're not even paying attention."

"No, no, we're listening. Please _Lina_ , go on." Washington earns a particularly sharp glare for that one. "So somebody put glue in his milk?"

"That's correct." You confirm as York slides even lower in his seat. "Then it sat in the fridge for another week and a half before he tried it."

"One mouthful and then out?"

"He drank until he found the glue at the bottom. Like a fruit cup."

"Oh wow," Washington pushes back a little from the table. "What, could you not tell there was something wrong with it?"

"I've had bad milk, alright? It didn't taste bad, just... Different. Vinegary."

Flipping the toothpaste over between his fingers Wash shakes his head, grinning away from a chipped incisor. "Please tell me you were the one who filled that carton, boss. Make my life complete."

"Wish I had. That'd be Connie's devil work."

"Connie?" Wash half squeaks, choking through a chuckle when York threatens with another glare. "Oh that's awesome,"

"Striping my ego ain't gonna tame my spirit any." York voices, making a worthless attempt to recover. You feel his foot hooking under your ankle as you're lifting the mug back to your lips, and lower it slightly when he skims the hem of your pants. "I still think it's adorable how you're trying, though."

"You sure like flying close to the sun," Washington murmurs, briefly slipping his gaze into yours.

"Well come on, who doesn't have a thing for good old SPF?"

"I heard SPF." Connie's soprano cuts in, and she's approaching silently behind Wash's bench. "Are we talking about leave? Please tell me it's gonna be someplace hot."

"We were talking about York and assholes and... other... stuff." Wash's body locks mid-rotation, jaw hanging for the fraction of a second before he's able to regather himself.

"Next leave isn't for another couple months." You inform, stabbing the toe of your boot into York's ankle, blowing into your mug. ..."Sorry to disappoint."

"I'll survive." Connie murmurs, balancing a plum with a bite mark in the centre of her palm. Paying no mind to the eyes, she steps over the bench, plunking herself down next to Wash. She takes the napkin off his plate then takes his knife to set along her fruit. "You guys are all pretty quiet today."

"Well a fucking minute ago none of them could shut up." York grouses, perhaps the only one oblivious to the table's tension.

Connie slits the plum in two, taking the slighter half for herself and folding up the other piece. It stands up on the table, folds of paper cloth slowly spreading back from the moistness of her palm, juices already making the corners stick. She waits expectantly, sucking the soft sides of her cheeks to the point where her lips are just barely pursed. She takes the opposite half of the plum and sticks it in her mouth whole. A few moments of content chewing and she takes notice of Washington and the unabashed weight of his stare.

"Problem?" She demands with her mouth full.

His fingers twitch, mouth opening and closing like a fish. ..."No. No problem. Just... Your hair,"

"What about it?"

..."It looks... It looks good."

She snorts, bits of fruit spraying out her mouth. "Okay, thanks Wash."

"No, really. It's kinda, you. Suits you."

She rolls her eyes, a new stretch of bangs catching at her ear. The layers cut off just above the nape of her neck, leaving thin white lines exposed from the skin previously concealed. She's one of those lucky girls with the delicate ears, the side of her to you untouched by rings or other metal decals. When she flushes, patches of pink blotch up the helix .

She pinches her cheeks together, refacing Washington to spit the pit against his neck. Past his shriek of aghast and how Connie's arm crosses the table top to brush his, you notice a distance presence that has stopped to watch.

The woman stands away from more illuminated sections of the cafeteria. Your eyes hold hers and her neck slants slightly, acknowledging. You lower your mug.

"If I might share my two cents, this is a fucking bad idea." Connie attempts to reason. "He's not going to be able to stomach that, nobody can stomach that."

"The hell happened to my support system?"

"Hey man, if it's gonna upset your stomach, you don't have to do it."

"Oh I'm doing it asshole."

"Wash, you are _going_ to throw up. This is a mistake." ....

Trailing your gaze back you catch York's and he gives you another truly oblivious grin before going back to reengage the other end of the table. Washington has the tube unscrewed and before anyone objects, takes the spout in his mouth. On either side of you the men groan, York's distorting into chuckles. Connie lets her hand drift to her mouth as Wash swallows, nearly gagging on his second mouthful.

"...Gets stuck in the throat."

"I know I wanted this, but God, make it stop-"

You rise from your seat, missing the first face to go along with a sound of accomplished defeat as Wash forces the rest into his mouth. He throws the flattened tube across the table at York, his aim off by more than a little. Connie glances up when you drift past, displaying how ashamed she is as a bystander before turning that disappointment on Washington, whose arm is stretching across the table to grab Maine's Coke.

"You proud of yourself?"

He chugs the soda, chokes a little. ..."Not sure yet. Come back to me in twenty minutes."

The continued conversation starts to fade as you continue to place more distance between yourself and their table. There are very few around which you feel the need to suit up to impose authority. You're lean, 5.6, and not exactly horrifyingly hideously. Establishing rank is how go about social interactions, and you've yet to set a place with this woman.

There's something to her stance that draws out the initial visual of her pretty well from a crowd of scientists and security attendants. A portrayal in the creases characterizing her pretty mouth and silent doll eyes. These attributes clash with the stud above her lip and the ring that going through her brow.

"Wisconsin."

The silver ring rises, shockingly blue eyes widening with approval. "Hey, that was pretty damn good, kid."

"You recognized me first."

Her head tilts slightly as she rests herself back against the wall, eyes growing dull as they fall back behind you. One of her shoulders shifts and you spot the start of letters above her breast.

Bria-

"How's he doing?"

Without parting the glare to look back you shrug. "He's keeping up."

She nods slightly, flicking her glare to the floor. "Knew I'd be losin' him soon. Guess it's best to you."

For a stunning moment, you're not sure how to feel about that. Wisconsin doesn't give the maybe-flattery time to sink in.

..."You're probably up to speed but, I'll let you know that I've been bumped again. Figured Reggie might sneak past me. Didn't figure it'd happen so quick. ...What can ya do, right?"

"Reggie?"

She looks up like you've asked a question. ..."Am I going to get in trouble using designations like that?"

"Not out of audio range."

She still looks at you as though you could pull a knife. ..."I like getting to know my competition."

"Interesting."

"Shut up. I don't mean to interrupt your playtime with the kids, but I've been thinking I need to get this off my chest." Her well rounded mouth swells like she building into it. "Chances are, I'm not going to make it back to the top again. Actually, the odds are pretty damn clear that I'm gonna be dropping a whole lot more. ...That's why I figure it there needs to be somebody smart left to know what's going on."

"Does this have something to do with Beta?"

"Who the fuck knows. Could just as well be Alpha in the next shit show. We've got a bug."

"A bug."

"One of yours, Beta's, I can't be sure but there's somebody somewhere who's doubling. We've got displacements in security, holes in intelligence... Miscommunications that just don't happen."

... "Why didn't you go to the director?"

"Because I _can't_." She enunciates in a low growl. "I'm not here for the fun of it. There are a million front lines men I'd trade my spot with in a goddamn second. What we do here is half-assed work that benefits research, but the pay comes a lot heftier from these private programs than it does in the army." She takes a step forward and your first instinct is to prepare for the hit. "If you give even half a shit about your band of killers over there, you'll keep both eyes open. Way up at the front we don't always see the ones dropping hard behind."

"We've drawn a line through the recruit process. The burning period is over."

"Oh it is far from over, Carolina. They've really been feeding it to you deep haven't they?" Her arm swings loosely, stopping just short of clipping your chin. Follow the point of her hand over your shoulder and back towards the horde you had left to entertain themselves. Connie slaps Wash's back as he dry wretches, Maine cracking a fresh pop and sliding it across the table. York catches your eye and tries to wave you back over, snatching the can before Wash can reach out for it and guzzling down an obnoxious amount. ..."You really wanna see them burn?"

"Of course I don't."

She lets her arm fall, watching your face wearily. "Eh. Way things are going, you might not get a choice."

* * *

 

"Soooo,"

A sigh passes heavily through you, lengthy enough so that he feels it too.

"What'd you think of that?"

"Wash puking up frothy blue shit? I though it wasn't one of your finest hours."

"Aww, come on. That was funny!"

"It was mean."

"Well then I guess you've been rubbing off on me, huh?"

You exhale, lifting yourself abruptly from his chest and folding your legs on a cool place over the stretch of floor that is his room. A dejected sound turns into a whine as he follows you up.

"Sorry, hey... Sorry, I have this thing where I just say stuff..."

"Uh huh."

Another moment of these adolescent antics and you give in, resting your face against his shoulder as he lies back into the cot. The grin he has wrapping his arm around your middle you tell yourself is ugly and smug.

..."You're a big softie."

"I hate you."

He presses his arms tighter, squeezing around your ribs. "What I meant before, was the thing with Wash and Connie."

Squirm a little in his hold, "What thing?"

"The 'thing'." He takes a loose strand of your hair, winding it around his finger until it's tugging slightly. "Something's going on there."

"You are such a child..."

"At heart." He agrees, tucking the strand behind your ear. The nearside of your neck shivers as his thumb brushes skin. ..."I'll have to do some investigating."

"Jesus..."

"I'm only concerned alright? They're just kids, they need to be playing it safe. Wouldn't surprise me at all if Wash still doesn't even know what to do with the equipment."

"Leave it alone, York..."

"Thought you didn't think 'it' was anything? If nothing's going on, what am I going to hurt by doing a little poking around?"

"If it happens it'll happen on its own. Don't embarrass them."

"You know I would never do anything to make people feel uncomfortable." Your elbow drives into the soft spot between his hip and pelvis. "Hey, hey careful, I've got sutures down there."

"How very convenient."

"Not like I placed them there on purpose."

Far enough below the mending you dig your nails into his hip until he squirms.

Evenings together consist of similar conversation and horribly uninterrupted movements. York pulls out a cigarette sometime after midnight and you pass it back and forth until the stick is a butt. A well worked out regiment. After this long, the specific creature of habit you are continuing to become alludes even you.

York brings back your acuteness through an exhale, no more particular than one his regulars, but abrupt enough to find it worthy of attention.

..."You ever think about after?"

Draw the joint back to your lips, looking past the indent marks in the ends that have softened.

"What's 'after'? After the project, after the war..."

"Just, after. When everybody goes home."

He's sprawled over the end of his cot, so it's safe for you to roll your eyes without his notice. Push at his ankle when his bare foot drifts too close to your face, bending an arm over his knee with the butt.

"Who's going home?"

The cigarette plucks itself from between your fingers and his body adjusts to one side, arm dropping to sling over your shoulder.

..."I'll probably have a few more nieces and nephews by now. It'd be nice, to check in on 'em all. Be at the birthday parties, family dinners,"

"I thought you hated living with family."

..."Guess living away from them long enough does this to you." His exhale stays in the air overhead, a cluster of hoary toxins that you follow into the dark. ..."As every poor R&B artist before me has preached, 'don't know what you got 'til it's gone'."

Your head rests into the crook between his arm and shoulder. It takes a minute for the picture of it to piece together. When it does, you see York without his shotgun, in a Hawaiian print shirt giving piggy-back rides and teaching the art of a whoopee cushion to children. A snort passes out your lips before you can stop it.

"Uncle York..."

His arm slings the rest of the joint back down to you. "Does have a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

"If you think you could pull it off,"

"Do you even know my first name?"

"Do you know mine?"

..."Would you tell me if I asked?"

Taking a final inhale, you gather the joint between fingers and pinch it in half. "No." Use your empty hand to push up from the floor and straighten, hissing at the tightness between your shoulders and exterior obliques. He rolls onto his stomach as you're reaching down for the pillow you'd stolen from him earlier. "...I'm tired, and it's late."

"You could stay."

Your eyes drift warily over his face, gaunt with only dull floodlights to illuminate it. He sounds hazy, and achy and just a little too hopeful. You toss the pillow into his face. "No."

He has the cushion gathered up in his arms, cradling it to his chest. "You know I get lonely."

"I didn't ask for a pet." It aches to be standing this straight. ..."Connie knows when I get in."

"Come on, Carolina,"

You hover, but only for a second and he falls back into a fetal position when you shove the pillow into his chest. "Does letting me push you around get you off?"

..."This a trap?"

"Well that depends,"

His brows raise as you move to the edge of his cot. ..."Depends on what?"

Leaning in low, you brace a hand in the space between his ribs and arm. The smoke nearly overpowers his cologne but not quite. The waft of it nearly drives you back but there's an attentive glint in his eyes, silently drawing in the weight of the room. You let yourself be dragged along with it. His mouth rushes yours soon as it's within reach.

There's eagerness in every crevice of his mouth, so you allow yourself a backseat and let him lead. Flushes of nicotine and drought drag with the rough ridges of his tongue. York is rugged and authentic and oddly enough, wholesome. You like that. The crackles in his lips tear against yours, his iron taste smoothing on the side of your tongue. ...You kind of like that too.

He puts some weight behind the hand that's balancing your hip, an attempt at encouraging you to lie with him. His hands are beginning to linger in places and you decide it enough when you see an alternate version of yourself allowing him that. He starts after you when you push back, hand grasping at your arm. You have to pry his fingers loose and weight him down just to lift yourself back up.

It takes a beat for the dazed look to faze out of his features. He pulls up onto his elbows, more than a little stunned.

"I need every back logged file affiliated to Beta by noon, and I need you not to ask questions. Can you do that?"

..."Uh, yeah. Sure, yeah I can. I'll get you those." There's a grin in his voice he gets away with in the dark. "...'Lina?"

"York?"

"Think you'll still be up for a drink, after everything?"

"At one point you would've offered me the bar."

"Was that a yes?"

"I'll see who still around, York."

"That seems fair enough." He grins, sinking back into his twist of sheets. "I'll see you at the finish line, Carolina. Be wearing something pretty."

* * *

 

You know for a fact that Wisconsin hangs onto her position another three weeks before the shock drop over Circumstance.

She aided in obtaining a conductor to transfer electro magnetic pulse waves with two younger recruits in tow.

Four times she was shot through snipper train during evac, three to the chest, one puncturing the skull. There was no slip for time, numbers were well managed. An Innie guard took several unlikely shots. You read that she bled out sulking at the unlikelihood of it all. York looked it up for you when you remember to ask, after failing to hear of her a number of weeks later.

Back home, two little girls still wait to hear from their mother. Nine and eleven.

A week to the day York pulls her file, a board goes up in the conference hall.

Now it's official.

You're number one.

 

 

 


	8. chapter 7

 

  
From entering the lift to the time stepping out, the temperature has dropped. A little distance from the heart of the ship and space temperatures tend to become more noticeable.

It has been a bit of a shock how easily you've adapted to idling on this monstrosity drifting through the cosmos. Already the vessel's become a platform of its own. Home was never the right word, but near the bottom levels of the ship, where the room numbers align with the names of your team, it's a similar sort of fixture. Whatever comes from the snoring of your roommate, the echoes of heavy metal through supposedly soundproof walls, and the occasional careen and perhaps crash of balsa wood against metal against flesh of a skateboard rounding the corridors.

The word is stability, and it's not entirely awful.

But those are the chamber levels. Any semblance of comfort will be shred upon tasting that chill of delving away from the more companionable deckings of this ship and into those of intellect. Not an ounce of your unease becomes apparent until you reach the final barrier of double door blocking off the deck entrance.

The armor up your torso feels too tight. You are a decorated woman, an accomplished woman, and stripped to a shell of yourself over thought of this confrontation. Every time without fail, debriefings get you feeling like you're ten years old.

The door parts sideways and you proceed.

Essentially, what you register is how dark it is. The Mother of Invention is illuminated like the fourth of July, and your team complains about it every morning over breakfast. This end of the ship, where illuminance should really be a heightened necessity, has always been exceptionably dark save for the data boards and elongated panels running across walls.

It can be disquieting going down those corridors without cause. Noises carry in ways that could set the tiny hairs on your neck upright. Voices and machinery can be easily distorted, particularly well by those familiar with the resonance of war.

...There's been a voice.

All Connie's talk might have gone to your head, because after every informal conversion between yourself and the members of upper staff, there have been... things. Strange little things like equipment fluxes, or little orbs of light in the boardroom. It might be paranoia, or stress or maybe you've just reached this rare but stable state of madness- and only on select floors.

One incident, a pulse of light had kindled and unlocked a monitor beneath your fingertips, another where you had sworn you heard a voice where there was no body. You come up to this deck and every time he is facing the monitors and speaking to himself, and several instances you think it's the voice he's talking to, because it's so strikingly familiar to the one you heard that once as a barely there hush.

None of your business. It's really none of your business whatever he could be doing, but it feels like continuously catching the act of gossip in process and the bones being gnawed are your family's skeletons.

At the very bow of the ship he has his posterior to you, hands wound near the small of his back. The monitor before him projects a path for the ship, violet blue beams from side panels reflecting off the glare of his lenses as he turns, the colors twisting through greys in his hair. It should be making his figure less oppressive, but maybe that's no longer possible.

"Director, sir."

Forming the habit of addressing him formally, only felt strange those first few times.

Once the rotation is complete he's facing you, and your legs have locked. It's difficult to keep from slipping into memory, of fitting him back to where he belongs. One struggle and you're lost... Whistling from the sidelines, spreading jam on toast, watching Dukes of Hazard, spitting up coffee, laughing-

"Agent,"

That glare settles, and whatever illusions you had been playing around with previously vanish. It takes a great deal of moxie to keep from collapsing into a full body shiver from the impatience he sheds now. Remember that it had been you to force this encounter, out of concern and doubt.

His frame shifts to eclipse the light behind one of the rear monitors, giving an erie ethereal glow to his features. ..."Have the hours been wearing on your time, Carolina?"

Your chin jerks up, stunned silence elapsing into an infuriating need to clarify. "Sir, any concerns that I have are solely for the team."

Behind dark frames his viridescent lit eyes have narrowed. "Explain. I have a thin window of time for discussion."

Your throat closes for a moment but you force a swallow and furrow your brows. Not for the first time in front of him, you wish it were possible to embody someone else.

Anyone else.

***

_**18:39** _

 

Connie is on the floor of the flight hangar, armor detached from the waist up. Her helmet serves as a fulcrum for her elbows, rocking when she shakes a rainbow bag of confectionary originals. Those had been stowed away under your mattress little over a week ago. You hadn't seen where she pulled them from on her person, so her entire setup looks more than a little absurd.

It's been a quiet evening with a segment of the team dispatched and the rest of them waiting for the next volley of orders. Connie's dull chewing spawns nostalgia and simplicity, so you haven't yet stuffed the rest of that bag down her throat. Nights like these they can get away with things.

Cellophane crumples as Connie readjusts, having gathered out a fresh handful of dots to pick through. She's very particular. Notice that the reds and purples she eats first, often taking blends of both into her mouth at a time.

North has served as her compliant recliner for the evening, pressed with his back to the bulkhead of a docked pelican. Over one shoulder a rifle slings menacingly, against the other, Connie pushes through the candy in her palm. She sets the bag over his chest every so often and he'll scoop up some of the discards.

"Nice to see, isn't it?"

There's no need to look to place the genuine pleasantry of this voice. Royal blue sidles up next to you, ODST helmet displacing kindness with something that has influenced York and countless others into avoiding eye contact with the particular teammate.

Resting your weight back to the wall the mesh croaks. "They're burning out. Not sure if I'd call it 'nice'." So long as you keep your visor tilted just so, no one would be able to tell you're bothered by it.

Connie has been with you most of the week, and from your knowledge she's running on a staggered, three or four hours of sleep over transit. North should've already been pulled from the register. He's spent a consistent 78 hours with his belly to the dirt and eyes through a scope, but as luck would have it Wyoming takes a shrapnel burst to the pelvis between flight times. This will be North's fourth drop of the week.

Florida has something in his fingers, something that gleams gold when exposed to the light. "They won't be slowing it down for us anytime soon." He states, sudden and a little too acute to your train of thought. "I'm starting to miss having rookies to pick up the slack."

Your stomach knocks a little but the note rings true. The earlier days had been rough, but now things are a different kind of 'rough'. Recruits came and went, and you had learned to deal with it. For the ones who had stuck around, now is when they're catching the blunt of it. To have Maine hospitalized from back to back drops that just caught up too quick, Connie absent from your room for multiple nights on end... To consider any one of them going the same way as a burn out... is stunningly unthinkable.

"...He'll have his break after this." You speak, strategically avoiding the directed question. "Four drops is more than enough to warrant time off."

Florida rocks a little next to you, humming with thought. ..."Maine was scheduled back to back five days, couple weeks back."

"You know that how?"

"I do have my ways." He says it like he's smiling, but that's a trick of his. Forever jubilant Agent Florida. ..."So, we in trouble with daddy?"

Look at him stunned, unsure of how to respond. He chuckles, and the ammo rounds slung across his chest tremble with him.

"Oh, you're a funny one... What I was so subtly trying to ask, sweetheart, is how come you're no longer the one dispatching our mission logs?"

"Don't call me sweetheart."

"How about sweetie?"

Swallow that, eyeing him over. ..."Logs change. I hear about initial plans, but there'll always be room left to improvise. We're told all that's required to be told."

His helmet lazes under your glare. "Fair enough, fair enough..."

Maybe something about Florida had always been absent from the complete case, like that he's both a Joker and wild card with no direct definition.

"Spry as a hare, mad as a hatter." Wyoming had shed in passing over one occasion of more than his share of gin. York had rebirthed the comment over one of your shared evenings shortly after.

"Druggies you know how the deal with, but there's, always been something about rabbits... Creepy as fuck." He likes to keep a good distance between himself and Florida.

"Would you want this?"

Glancing back see that Florida has offered out his hand, gloved fingers pinch around the flint of copper that had previously caught your eye.

..."I quit collecting momentums a while ago." You tell him, redirecting the train of your visor anywhere but back to Georgia's penny.

Florida keeps his hand outstretched a moment longer, perhaps to see if you'll reconsider. When you make no move to collect, he folds his fist around it. After a moment his gauntlet bends back and unwinds with a swing. The penny clinks the metal of the hangar and skips five times more before vanishing over near the far wall.

Connie flicks against North's chest armor and Florida takes the moment to sigh.

..."How sad we all are."

 

_**19:14** _

 

York hurls his helmet off in the round of seconds before his boots catch on the rear ramp of the pelican and he's sprawling the remaining four feet to the launch pad.

"They did tell you to tie your shoes." Four Seven Niner cackles nonsense from the head of the ship and you move, speeding over the tarmac to the heap that is York. He's wiping blood up from his nose as you kneel down.

"...Gonna," He gets out, seconds before both shoulders fold into his back and he's emptying out his stomach inches from your legs.

The prospect of getting a vomit wash job is trivial to this point you're at. The upper half of your torso looks like it's been wind whipped by slaughterhouse entrails, bottom half a blend of that and a dried shell of mud. A splash of vomit might remind onlookers this isn't a new paint job, no matter how frequently it's been supported.

Heavier foot falls sound as Maine strides down the ramp next, a reflective image of your sloppy color scheme. He gives the medical crew a wide berth as they scuttle in around York. Before they've come too close you have a hand raised to impede them, opposite hand pressed to his wrist. "A minute!"

York reaches blearily to wipe his mouth, swaying on his knees. He resorts to hanging against your abdominal plates for balance. When his arm reaches you give him your hand and he latches on, grip clenching on each gnarled choke. Hold him until it subsides and his body's edging towards weightlessness. When his grip slips and it's just your hand holding his, you let go and push up from the floor. No sooner have you stepped back has the medical team invaded that space to encircle him.

They guide him back to his feet and it's almost irritably comforting when he raises his arm to give a thumbs up. It takes four of them to support York while he staggers. You're still watching the effort when a hand claps your shoulder.

"He's got one of the toughest skulls I've seen to date. Wouldn't worry about it."

Admit that for all the time you've shared a cockpit with her, you don't really know that much about Four Seven Niner outside the drop field. The way she can swagger into the hangar from four am to eleven pm, be phenomenally hungover and go on to pilot through swarms of enemy hornets in undesignated airspace without loosing a chip of paint off her self-appointed 'baby', says a lot about the outfit she'd been uprooted from, predating the project.

Niner drags her arms up to stretch above her head. "You and York, you'll be off for the rest of the week. Right?"

"Well, York should be out a few days."

"That's nice. Enjoy happy trails, you fucks." It's a drawl, but even so sounds overly apart from the venom leaving her mouth. "See if I get any spare hours this week."

"Could sleep between drops." You suggest, wry smile forming when her neck locks up mid roll.

"Smart mouth bitch-lancer." She ejects, tilting her visor in a way that projects all the searing angles of a glare. "You smell like dog food. Take a fucking shower."

"Maybe I'll do that." The idea is one you've been fantasizing from the very start of this week. "I'll hope you have a slow evening."

Her snort would be offensive had you not grown accustom to this kind of disposition years ago. "A slow night for me is a hellish night for you guys." She lounges up to an AV-22 Sparrowhawk and sticks her arm beneath the undercarriage, digs around for a moment before latching on and dragging up a silver flask. "Thanks, but I'll take the dangerous games over dull ones any day." She fiddles with the cap for a moment before it comes loose and she lets it clink over the floor. She groans, and you think for a moment it's because she doesn't feel like bending that far. "Please tell me those aren't the two I'm suppose to be shipping."

Follow the train of her gaze and locate Washington. He's shouldered up to a wall to stock his battle rifle, bearing this absurdly concentrated frown. At his feet Connie has slouched, fully armed and sleeping soundly with her head braced against his shin and a pair of white earphones humming faintly. Upon an initial inspection, you note a bandaged wound from Washington's right hand that stretches along past his wrist. In the minute it takes your brain to process it as a 'pull from active register' injury, remember it's not his only firing arm.

"Bottom of the board cadets are my last drop of the night." Niner mutters between another swig. "...Fucking beautiful."

Wash finishes up with his mag strip and moves to strap the rifle back over his shoulder. With Connie balanced precariously against his leg, he takes added measures not to jostle her as he repositions.

"They're our top ten for a reason." You use the toe of your boot to slide the flask cap back at her.

The glare she places nearly aligns perfectly through your visor, and you're sure you'll never know whether her eyes are hazel or grey. Contact breaks when she brings the flask back to her mouth. She drinks until it has her spine nearly in half, then releases the fight. Her boot kicks the cap, and it skips over the concrete and out of sight. ..."Top ten, last ten. Guess I'm just not hearing the difference."

 

**_21:32_ **

 

Phlegm hits the floor, missing the majority of your foot and spraying over the tiles.

You had tracked her down to the locker room where she's presently half dressed, a pile of lavender bodywear scattering the bench next to her. Balancing a metal stud between her lips, South slaps at the clasps until the armor over her knee claps shut. Washed out color sticks and presses a mat to the back of her neck, her arms move in vicious mechanics.

"Fuck. Fucking fuck. Fuck." She's hissing under her breath. "Why can't you get your boy toy to go on babysitting duty?"

"York was hit to the back of the skull by a quarter ton slab of airship debris. Wyoming and Maine are still under medical watch." There's no frustration in dealing with her tonight. South has put in nearly as many hours as you have. She's earned her sleep. "This will be quick with the four of us and the terra based evac."

"Don't try to slant this for me." Her eyes drive past the tint of your visor, the right rimmed by a crimson slit. The stitches that had previously held it together have torn through, where there's now only a few lines of tape as reinforcement. "If it's so in and out, what do you need to go along for? Don't feed me shit, Carolina."

"I'm going because right now, they're on their own." You repeat for her again, lacking apathy on what you're certain is the fifth or sixth attempt. "Connie is tired, Wash has a bad arm. You are fine. You could be filling his spot."

"Of course I would be." She snickers in disgust. "So you'll be going along to hold Connie's hand? That it?"

 _ **Log displays 21:38**_.

"Either come along now or I can figure something else out." You deliver, still contemplating. "North and I can fill the void on our own. I had just assumed you'd prefer to join us. Even the little things might help keep a lock on board placements."

For a moment, it feels like she might cross the room to throttle you. South has a lot of pride to think of, and that makes her an unbelievably easy catch.

She follows you out into the air hangar like an indignant child when you go to collect North, dragging her feet along and everything short of vocalizing her fury.

Four Seven Niner does a slow double take when she sees you with North and South, and you're grateful that's all she does.

It's Connie who takes notice of your group first, and her gaze shifts out of confusion into a strange scowl of distrust. At her feet, Wash has slumped out like a great, useless guard dog. Connie's headphones had alternated to his ears, and so he remains unaware as South closes the distance.

She kicks into a chink in his abdominal armor, and Washington releases a startled yelp as he's jerked out of his lull. Connie stands on offence and North barks a scolding but she glides on past. "You're gonna owe me big for this." She calls back, grinning a little too wide as Wash rocks his knees, winding both arms around his stomach. "Let's get to the de-capping. I want to be in bed by eleven."

 

_**21:50** _

 

It's the first time you've been dispatched into a populated sector in months.

An aroma of nitrogen melds its way through the armor, and the flow of it burns at your throat and nostrils. Winds whip dirt around road bends like tiny cyclones, pebbles and shards of glass pelting at your body's outer shell. At a rise among the dirt and debris, you prop a foot beneath the mound and nudge. Run a scan when the rise fails to move and pick your way through on to the next.

Connie stays close at your flank, the molasses of her paint wind-washed almost dun. Unlike you, she has knelt over bodies. She runs every scan at least twice. There are the moments where you're reminding her to keep at a pace. The next mound she stops over, you take her shoulder.

"This girl was pregnant." She spoke quietly. "Along second trimester maybe. Baby hadn't even dropped."

You don't know what she means, nor do you ask. Connecticut knows about maternity, a concept so foreign to you that it feels insignificant. She knows to stay quiet during the silences after, as if resigning for what remains of the night.

"Downtown area's been swept."

South sends the casualty count through, and Connie inhales.

"Are we gonna call it?"

Canting your helmet, see Connie dropping back into a crouch. ..."Yeah, I'm calling it. We meet back at the start of St. Lois, across from the gala."

"Copy," North replies.

After the line cuts you stare for a moment. Triple digits off of what they collected alone. Add that to yours and Connecticut's survey. No alien squadrons had plundered here. This was work done by human hands, though not quite. You've really always classed the Insurrectionists as a subspecies category.

"We'll do a perimeter check before they get back." You decide. "I don't want to leave if there's still somebody to interrogate. Connie, we're packing up."

Her helmet visor slants while her body's in mid reach and you end up following her outstretched arm to where the gauntlet is buried between dirt and plaster. The lump makes a strange rattle as she's dragging it up, and dusting it against her thigh.

It's a cat plushy, or maybe that's a dog. You can't tell from the way she's holding it or the condition of it.

..."They didn't have time to evacuate, did they?" She asks, steady even with the doll in her hands.

Clasp a little firmer over the grip of your magnum. "They didn't."

Her shoulders slouch with the rest of her, and when her back straightens, the beans inside rattle, some spilling out a hole through the belly. ..."This must be a strange alteration from what you usually do on drops."

..."Changes of pace are good." You retort, keying in to her conversation attempt. "Still, I'll look forward to showering again sometime soon."

She grunts softly. "Fresh clothes, clean bed sheets, a soft pillow..."

"You've been doing a lot of these aftermath inspections?"

"Some with Wyoming, some with Wash," She lists off their names blearily and wraps the backs of her knuckles to her helmet. "Explosive ordinance. My job to demolish or defuse. Normally we arrive too late to do either. So, I get to see a whole lot of this." She spreads an arm out, spanning the devastation as though it's her canvas. "Sometimes I get to save people. More often, I feel like I'm just here to observe. Like they know when you can't do anything more, but still they make you watch. To watch is to learn..."

You stop walking, transitioning slowly as her steps grow muted behind you. "Connie, that's..."

She stands rigid, gaze of her helmet pointed across the street through the shattered archway of what could've been a deli. Following her vision it takes a moment for your scanners to detect them.

Survivors. Survivors walking from building to building.

Connie drops the plush toy, the beans making a grated plastic sound.

"Think many others thought to hide out below?" Her smile nearly shows through the transmitter.

The small cluster of bodies holds up, and you note how they're clinging to each other. After a beat, you're reconsidering the grasp on your gun.

"Connie, don't put away your weapon."

She looks over her shoulder briefly. "They're civilians,"

"I don't care, hold your gun."

Imagine that there's a scowl over her features but her hand had drifted a moment for her holstered magnum. ..."I can grab it if I need to. Let's not cause them to freak."

Burrow a glare through her armor but you keep both arms steady, ready to snap up if there's an advance. Connie is raising her hands slightly, and you concentrate on scoping out the shadows from crumbled buildings lining the street corner.

Upon closer inspection, you identify the civilians to be both middle aged women. Sheltered between them, are two children. Lines streak the grime convoluting their faces and they watch Connie approaching with wide eyes.

"No further, Connie."

She slows to a halt. Shifting weight off her lead foot, she keeps both arms raised, ever so slowly starting back for the seals of her helmet. The shell hisses and she plucks it off, casually stroking a hand through her hair, tucking the bangs from her face. "I'm Connecticut, behind me is Carolina. Is there anyway we can help you?"

Her voice dulls down in the wake of a low, gut wrenching howl. It's not from either children, but from the woman nearest. Her mouth falls open in a wail, awful and anguished. Your stomach drops as it escalates into a scream, and then the children are crying.

"Connie, get back."

She remains still, but the previous medium of her tone has been replaced by something fragile. "You need to take off your helmet. They're terrified."

"I'm not taking off my helmet, and you put yours back on. We're leaving."

"We have medical supplies and available transport, are any of you injured?"

"Connecticut, put on your goddamn," Tracking something inside the wreck adjoining the street corner, a tremor runs down your spine. Something glints through the dust and surviving street lights, a humanoid shape stepping out through the ruble.

You see it in her face, read the sudden spike in her pulse rate that unveils it first. She's fucked up. She's fucked up badly.

Four shots go off and a child screams. Their faces freeze into one beige, black and brown collage of terror, and it runs right through you, numbing away any leverage of panic.

Four shots. There's four shots, then all you're seeing is sky.

Your fingers glance one of the computer modules again on the way out and something stirs. It's ridiculous and crazy and maybe all inside your head, but the equipment feels livid up the bones of your hand.

"Carolina!"

_"Is that her? That was her, wasn't it?" ___

"No, no, shit... -North!? NORTH!"

When gravity falls from beneath you and there are sturdy pillars bracing your weight, feeling returns in a rush. Your chest is an inferno, liquid white and writhing. It's a bit much, and your head hurts.

_"That was Agent Carolina!" ___

"Carolina, hey. Hey champ, can you look here for me?"

You are shaken back up to the surface, and for a moment your vision clears and there's a face. It's dark, so you see only the outline, and sharp structure.

If it's York, you can relax. ...He's right below, he can take care of things for a bit...

"Up here, eyes open, kiddo."

Doesn't sound like York...

The shouts sound like they're traveling away, away inside a bubble. Feel yourself slumping into not-York's chest because you can't not slump and it just feels so much better... Remember the lights that hurt your head, bass too loud, climates that had clothing clinging in all the right places. The warmth is nice...

 _ **Log displays 24:14**_.

There's a warmth pooling in your chest, and you can't really tell if it's real.

...And he's sitting with his back to you, flipping a lighter between his knuckles.

"Carolina, hey, look here. Look here, stay with me-"

\---

"Fucking bitch! That stupid fucking--"


	9. chapter 8

 

"WHAT IN THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"

The world is compromised by combustible groans and tremors. Your head sways not unlike the aerobics of a diamond kite wound up in the wind. The thunk of heavy gear against grated floors sends light through your distant skeleton and more than once your skull has thunked that same platform.

A shock of yellow current spikes up the base of your skull and then the someone who's been plugging up your chest with biofoam has you propped over an incline. North had removed your helmet a long time ago, and you almost wish he had left it on. Anything to stifle the screeches.

"This was an unsanctioned area, you had no goddamn business. No fucking business to do what you did!"

"The city was locked for demolition. Anything could've happened to any of us. Things go wrong; Innie drop ships we're making round trips, a shell somewhere could've been live-"

"You wanna try harder to back your way outta slaughtering the top Freelancer on the board?"

"They were afraid-"

"Fucking Christ,"

"They had children! What was I suppose to do?!"

"You follow the orders of your fucking CO! The mission doesn't stop because Connie has a conscience, or because she's just being so goddamn selfish her pussy trail nearly gets our LZ platform blown to bits!"

"I had no idea, South. Okay? I had no idea they were still out here."

"You walked right up to them, you brought our leader right up to them!"

"South,"

North's voice comes from directly above, a palm pressing your head with weight you hadn't previously recalled.

"This isn't her fault. We received bad intel."

"Well I can't just yell at fucking linguistics for this. She's here, she's convenient. I choose to beat on her."

"We weren't thinking straight." Connie says, in a similar tone to being shot. "I wasn't thinking. I never meant for... North. She's still okay, right?"

Callouses scratch your brow. A blur of blond clears his throat roughly, resettling his fingers. "She's still losing blood. Pupils aren't dilating anymore for me."

South hisses a series of profanities that don't quite resonate, and there's the weight of gear dropping into a diagonal seat.

"We've got the mother fucking helm of Freelancer bleeding out on the floor, please tell me you're not gonna hyperventilate."

"Carolina?" Connie calls, lacking her signature snark. "Don't die. I'm gonna need you to really yell at me for this one. Just don't die, okay?"

North presses the back of his hand to your forehead and its spreads a strange warmth. An untold amount of time goes into you registering what that warmth is. The blood that has spooled through your hair clings to North's soothing touch, moist between the flat of his hand and your face.

South's helmet whips across the back of the pelican, and through the glaze of your vision she puts herself up, nearly fronting on Connie, whose legs are nearest to your head.

..."North," She starts.

"Not now." The sound of scathing is a new one for him but it doesn't upset the hand over you, firm and reassuring. "Hang in there, tiger. Almost home."

"She's gonna be a corpse in fifteen minutes. We've still got three quarters of an hour in transit."

"There's something wrong with you, South. And I mean clinically, you need to have some things scanned."

"I'm the unfavored child, and you just killed Carolina."

"Shut up."

"What were the odds you'd walk away from a point blank shot? Fucking gypped we were out there. Can't I just shoot you here? Save somebody else the trouble,"

"Shut _up_!"

...

 

***

_For the early nights, you had him._

_It was easy to slip under the covers late at night. Sometimes he'd be up, eyes on a screen of what appeared only as gibberish back then. Heavy lidded and in his own world you could climb into the vacant side of the bed and burrow deep enough in that he wouldn't notice. With the warmth of him right there it was easy to ward off anything that might needle a way into your dreams. Squares of a screen in his lenses in the dark, you would watch them until you couldn't and when you blinked next it was morning and his arms had taken you in like a large doll._

_This became the norm. You sneaking in and maybe he did notice, you hadn't wondered at the time. His body was safer than all the blankets in your bed, and your mother's pillow smelt of hibiscus conditioner and sweat._

_It became a problem._

_"What harm's it doing, Allison?"_

_"A lot. I don't like her thinking it's okay to act like this when I'm not home."_

_"She's missing you."_

_"She's relying on me."_

_It was a gentle process. He spent the evenings camped at the end of your bed the next full week of deployment, gradually going to the floor. Eventually you could fall asleep with just the hall light._

 

***

 

Your eyes open to an inferno of white and immediately slip shut. The smell of cleanser and echo of an intercom tells all you need to know.

You can feel the weight of your skull in both your eyelids as you blink, and the overhead lights are sending a hall needle jabs around your head. Something rough is pressing your brow and there's a similar snugness over your chest.

It's odd, because there doesn't feel to be too much wrong.

The ache is there in your chest, and the line across your brow burns. Otherwise though, the haze is gone.

Just putting weight back into your arms feels incredibly good, but that tremor in your wrists brings on a frown. Shifting up to balance back against the gurney you blink about to place where it is they brought you. Once you have it confirmed this is a recovery room, your attention diverts to the stiff trunks of your legs. They move for you, reclining up into small triangles under the sheets. Everything feels the way it should, so you decide to test a little further by twisting your pelvi-

_Ah. There it is. ___

A sharp wedge of pain sends your nerves into distress and your body curls in on its own accord. Teeth clipping the insides of your mouth you guide yourself back stiffly, back to facing that light on the ceiling. Something stirs a little in your peripherals, then a lot.

"Whoa shit-you're up,"

It takes longer than it should for you to place the voice, but the astounding height of vocal expression has you somewhat relieved, if not also a little exasperated.

He rises so quickly that the cart on wheels he'd taken for a seat rolls backwards into the wall. There's a real splint around his wrist and he's dressed down for once, so when crossing the room he's able to do so swiftly.

"...Wash,"

His good hand grips the gurney rail. "Hey, how're you feeling?"

Give him a look at that causes his fingers to flex. "...Was I shot?"

"In the head. Bullet just skimmed though. Two more caught you in the chest." He directs at his own torso to demonstrate. "...Hit you in the lungs, boss. Had everybody pretty worried."

Nod slowly, considering. "How long have I been here?"

"North said you were out for half an hour on the pelican. They put you under for surgery and that was... Thirteen, fourteen hours ago? Give or take."

"Where's Connie?"

All the ease that came with previous queries seems to leave him on the spot. ..."Connie's good. She's out with Maine and Florida."

It should be relieving, to hear she's alright. But the memory of it is vivid. Stepping through rubble, hysterical sobbing, an air crackle of shots...

"She was in here too."

Glance up slowly, catching his eyes for a moment before he has habitually flicked them elsewhere.

"Connie stayed through the night. They got pulled in the morning though... Oh hell- and York has been here. They moved him to your room but he had to go have his head scanned so..." His fingers drum along the rail bar, and you narrow in on them picking out the white lines and creases caressing skin far too well used for that age. "He wanted me to let him know if you moved, or woke up. I should probably call. Would you pretend to be asleep when he shows up? I was suppose to let him know if anything changed and you being up and talking is kind of a big deal, so-"

"I'm not doing that."

"Yeah, okay." He complies, voice shrinking. Releasing the gurney, his hand digs into his pant pocket. ..."Are you hungry? They did insert a drip line but, those are never fun. Should I get a nurse?"

"Get me out."

"I'll get a nurse maybe. Bring some real food-"

"Wash."

He stalls on the spot, pitifully still and awkward and on top of all that, you've made him nervous. About ready to deem him a lost cause, you reposition your legs so they're bent.

"I need to get up. I need to be moving and showering. I want to sleep in my own bed. Can you help me get me there?"

"The doctors want you to stay for a couple days."

"Fuck doctors. Fuck Connie, fuck York." Gather yourself in preparation for that rush of pain as you twist over the railing. "-fuck you."

"You had surgery thirteen hours ago, you should just- shit, oh okay, alright. Don't, wait-" Washington grabs at your shoulder, rushing in as the pain from before doubles. Red and black splatter your vision, and you're not sure just how loud it is when you groan. Wash is cursing up a storm, but you feel his hands guiding your legs, then your weight lifting from the bed.

The bandage around your chest tugs painfully, but all is forgotten as your bare feet touch the floor. One of your arms stays strung over Wash's shoulder, and that's what keeps you from falling to the floor when your legs take weight.

"Okay, how do we do this... Fuck." Washington's chest sinks in. Your vision is sapping out again, so there's nothing in you to protest it when he puts his good arm around and takes some of the weight off your feet. "Okay, you're the navigator, alright."

"...Out of here."

His sigh is hefty and just a bit petulant. "Right. Hold on."

When he moves it feels like swinging, the lights coming and going in haphazard blows to your brain. Sounds streaming in and out, knocking your skull like beads to the buffers of a pinball machine...

"Wait, are you-"

Acid bursts up the swollen valve of your larynx, spiking hot and jagged over your tongue and out through your teeth. Wash keeps you up, unflinching as vomit splatters the floor in a spray of pasty canary.

..."Well, shit." He mutters, scooting his right foot a little ways back from the mess. He doesn't recoil, you give him that. Keeping a steady arm rounding your middle, he tows your weight back to detour. "Anything else coming up that I should know about?"

The arm pressing uncomfortably into your stomach makes this grimace natural. ..."Shut up."

"Just do a little something to warn me next time." There's a grin in there somewhere. "These are my good socks."

..."What did you do with your shoes, Wash?"

He shoulders the door to the recovery room, and your eyes shy away at the light alteration. Suppose he hadn't heard the question, because there's a beat of silence that goes by where he drags your body in silence. Wind around a bend in the corridor and his speed quite suddenly picks up. "Hey, uh excuse me?" He calls out.

For a terrible minute you think he's selling you out.

"We left a bit of a mess in B19. Thought you guys should know." The arm readjusts, pressing your ribs again. ..."I had very little to do with it."

"Oh that's no trouble! Where is she off to?"

This face you can't see is quickly becoming a nuisance.

"Oh, we were thinking about doing some bar hoping, maybe some swimming. Hey, Lina? You up for some swimming?"

"She's been released?"

"I'm just following orders. Kinda like having an ounce of self-preservation."

..."Well, make sure to bring her back if there are still symptoms of nausea come morning. There are a few more doses we need to administer."

A spike of urgency hits so suddenly that your elbow slips and homes in a little harder than necessary to Wash's ribs.

"Ahhah, we'll take those- I can take those. Just in case, right? She might need them when she wakes up."

There's a beat before the medical attendant is moving. She shuffles away into an office and you hear cupboards swinging. She returns with a package of plastic tubs and cases that rattle like candy when they exchange hands.

"Great. Thanks." Wash murmurs, tucking the baggie up in his fist.

"Keep someone with her for now. We're not yet in the clear for infection."

Until the medic turns off to resume her rounds, Wash keeps you still and suspended under his arm. His scowl returns with interest soon as the hall has cleared, and his forearm against your stomach grows taut.

"The blow was unnecessary."

You kind of chuckle at his attempt at being starn. ..." _Whimp_."

"Excuse me, last time I checked I didn't schedule a time slot to camp out by your bedside dispensing capsules. If I were you, I'd be aiming for grateful."

"I hardly touched you. Are those socks argyle?"

"So big. Everybody owes me so big for this."

"Quit deflecting. The fuck's with your feet?"

"I can't find them."

"Can't find what? Shoes?"

He cants his head like you're the one not making sense. "Boss, I _know_ where my shoes are."

"Okay,"

"These are one of my last pairs of socks." He emphasizes, lifting his inside left. "They've been disappearing in pairs. I have to hide my shoes, because they might go next."

..."Do you know who it is?"

"I have an inkling." He glowers, so ominous that it comes across comical. "Many traps have been set, dozens of good socks sacrificed in the line of duty."

"What kind of life do you have here, Wash?"

He actually looks to think on that. "One with shitty friends and shittier food."

 

***

 

_The light was set over a dresser in your bedroom._

_It was a schoolmate's birthday party. One of the girl's aunts bought her a light with fish that swam around, like a colourful aquatic carousel. She took it out of the box and left it but you stayed to watch the adults put it together. The first time they swam, it was set. This girl was going to be your best friend._

_It was another eight months before your party. Dad googled how to make a piñata, and the Friday before that's what you both did after lunch. More of the candy and dollar store toys went in your pocket than the balloon. They went through the wash and the next day he found starburst melded together in your pockets._

_The night of, the tablet was brought out and your mother distracted you with questions; the tooth you had lost, a spelling test with a sticker... Questions that gave plenty of time for your father to disperse and return with one last surprise. You never asked how they knew, but the light became a fixture in your room. Dolphins that swam in place of the fish._

_For the first time in months, the hallway light was left off._

***

 

The MOI berths over a Colony planet and the twins take off on night one.

No one asks whether or not North and South are that accommodated to the area, but from the familiarity they notably shared for these wet, rancid city streets, it had been all but implied up front.

Maine and Connie get slotted for the same leave, then Wash and York are thrown into the mix abruptly the night before. What it means is that he's clearing everyone's banks for the near future. You're not the only one who realizes it either.

"Strange line up." Maine had muttered into your ear during the party's parade through the streets.

The both of you hung back from the head of the posse, observing the others it's comprised of. Connie purposefully keeps her distance, still not quite over the last near-miss. Wash keeps flanking between sections of the group, oblivious to any kind of harboured tension he banters back and forth between the lot with York, who's taken up lead position for the evening.

Washington's jab that York's radar for places to get shitfaced might be stronger than his radar for getting shit beaten from his face, rings fairly accurate. Connie had snorted along with him, encouraging a slow build of compact keenness she might have missed from her end. You don't miss it.

York reestablishes his navigator's savvy by drawing your group up to a waterfront pub with a partially burnt out borer. Connie sounds it out as 'something Gro- er's', without the letters dead centre. York had strolled through the doorway, kicking his boots against the step and skipping up over the splayed floor mat. He holds the door for Connie, then let's it go against Wash. This kind of back and forth becomes the ongoing affair of the night. The deliberate avoidance Connie displays whenever they try to draw you into one of their ordeals is the purple elephant in the room.

The bar shudders beneath your elbows as York pounds another glass.

"Last one," He says, perfectly fluid in spite of the odds. It's a little bit agitating that he's not the light weight you had taken him for. This'll be his fourth of the night and yet he manages to keep balance of his stool.

Wash had quit contesting the durability of their joined kidney's some twenty minutes earlier, that had left Connie to as she had put it so eloquently, 'brace the balls of you bitches'. She alternates a lean between Maine and the wall every forty seconds her body chooses to slant. She's got to be lighter than you, and a third of what she has in her would've been enough to get you satisfyingly tipsy.

Seated down the counter from you, Wash is spinning an empty tub of rib sauce around with his finger. "Why do we never get to try new things?" He whines, gazing lustfully over the bar into the piece of kitchen viewed through a window through to the back room.

Leaning back from his seat and disappointingly remaining upright, York looks the back of Wash over and smirks. "Well, deal is I'm a nice guy, Wash. I'll be needed a lot more whiskey before we start with the pillow talk."

"All I'm smelling is that fish on a spit." Wash strains his neck, swaying with the aroma to a rhythm only he can hear. "Dear God... A few bites, boss?"

You select a potato wedge from the basket centred in front of you before another arm can move it further down the counter. ..."Spring is the primary season for peaks in algal blooms in this area."

"One bite!? A mouthful isn't gonna kill me!"

He shrinks back a little when you glare over an arm. Wash flumps his shoulders, slipping halfway out of his seat, but picking out a chip when you nudge the basket over to him. He puts it in his mouth and chews slowly, in all the sulkiness of a child that's had Christmas torn from their arms.

"I had a goldfish when I was ten." Connie slurs, hanging off of Maine's shoulder by the hook of her chin. "...It started silver, and went orange. All my friends thought it was a magic fish. ...My friends were dumb."

Devastation seemingly forgotten, Wash leans into the bar and stretches his head around you and Maine. "How you doin', Connie?"

Her head rotates toward his voice, but her eyes have trouble finding him. ..."I'm doing this for everybody's dignity, asshole."

He raises his palms for her, failing to hide his grin. "I appreciate it."

"So appreciate me quietly. Shut up."

York's arm reaches around Wash for the basket, scraping the wax paper for a wide handful. You watch as he pulls them back and pushes more than five pieces into his mouth at once. Try to decide whether this disgusts or arouses you. You're still trying to settle on one when his eyes catch yours. ..."I can do better," He defends, wagging an eyebrow. "Can't believe you kids finished off the sauce. Animals."

As if to demonstrate the point, Wash pulls his finger back from the nearly clean cup and sticks it inside his mouth.

"Oh Washington, you make me hard."

York ducks to the counter as Wash whips the cup at his head. Glass shatters from mid centre of the room and York stifles a curse.

"Hey!" Both men swivel into the counter, where the bartender is bracing his arms and glowering. "You'll be picking that up."

"Wouldn't have to if it hit." Wash grouses, but he waves a dejected arm to the angry man. "Yeah, sorry. I'll do that." Then he seems to reconsider something as an afterthought. "The fish smells fantastic."

Connie crinkles her nose again, this time with no holding back. ..."Puss."

"Excuse me?"

"Forget it Wash, it's the vodka tonic."

"Or maybe the last eight." York comments into his drink.

She attempts a sneer, but it comes across like she's dizzy. The basket has slid a little in front of her so Maine snaps his hand around it when she flails an arm down the counter and flips York off with her middle and index fingers.

She and Maine start a competitive tug of war over the food and you decide to call it a night. A narrow flit of your eyes and York is rising from his seat.

Having won the basket, Connie works to fit the remaining wedges inside Wash's mouth. Maine gives his chosen company a disapproving and slightest bit fond grunt. He set his share of the tab on the counter and rises with the rest of you.

"Don't stay out too late, kids." York chides, sticking his hand through Wash's hair and ruffling roughly.

Squawking around his mouthful, Wash swings an arm up to swat York and immediately starts choking. Connie huffs, impatiently instructing him to chew while she gathers the remaining slices in her hand and crushes them up.

You've hardly set foot over the flat of the exit steps when salt and sulphur hit your sinuses in a way that burns. York slings an arm around your waist, gradually drifting your hip into his.

"Sorry I had to bring the kids along. They're not really at that age where you can trust 'em not to stick their fingers into wall sockets or run with scissors."

"So you're responsible." Give him a sideways glance. "Doesn't it ever get exhausting?"

"Well, I am the youngest of eight. Parents kind of bust the routine after number four, so you've gotta live smart to fend for yourself. Keep on your toes." He grins away, body frame guiding yours on a stroll down the harbor front. The hand on your waist spreads and his fingers brush skin. "...You hungry? We could wander some more, look for a place that doesn't serve infectious meats?"

"I kind of am." You murmur, finding yourself leaning a bit more into his side.

"Great. So, pizza? I saw this little sandwich shop on the way down. Or we could, keep looking." He slows when you do, at the end of the street where a lamppost flickers. You look at the way the strange lighting gives him expression, shadows under his eyes and jaw, the cleft of his chin and scruff where he hasn't yet shaved.

By the time Wash had you out of the recovery bay, it had been early morning. He helped with the meds and planned to stick around, and then York had shown up. With gauze winding his scalp, sickly white and eyes absurdly half lidded and darkly rimmed. York showed up and he sat with you. He says the two of you played Black Jack. You won. He says he let you. He's full of shit.

He's full of shit and he's coy and infuriating. But he showed up, and that matters.

He actually looks unready for it when you gather his jaw with both hands to kiss him. It's easier going into it, now that you're familiar with him. As much intent goes into this contact as you are able to illustrate, and once he's overcome that initial stupor, York seems all too eager to reciprocate. One of his hands grows heavy on your hip while the other reaches for the back of your neck. His mouth opens to yours just as you pull back.

..."Still want to go someplace?"

"...Yeah."

"With me?"

"Fucking anywhere with you."

 

***

 

_Everything is blue from an off-cast of the night light. It rotates with straining gears, and sometimes the dolphins get caught, but a little tap and they'd go right on swimming._

_The gears turning are usually enough to lull you asleep, staring into the blue puts a surprising amount of weight over the lids of your eyes. Tonight's blue burns. Churning of the gears are keeping you up._

_Under the door there's a line of light, not bright enough to be from the hall. You were watching when it went on and he crossed down the hall, down the stairs, more alert than he would've any time before._

_There's a beat where nothing happens on the floor below. So maybe there hadn't been a knock. He forgets things sometimes, has to get up at night and go out to the car or sometimes you're still up and he'll be downstairs digging through the study for a paper or his keys._

_The gears of your dolphins catch, grinding irritably loud and it's only when they're swimming again that you hear him. There had been voices below. Adult voices hushed through the floor boards._

_The light is blaring blue, its hum pulsing shivers through the blankets and the stuffed zebra held against your chest isn't any relief. It's been long enough that sleeping in his bed had been weened out, but it's in you still. His arms could be holding you, only you're holding a zebra. A zebra new enough that you were still trying to settle with a name._

_It feels easier to cover your ears than to stand up and tap the dolphins, so you do that. A rough ball is expanding readily in your throat as you listen, the voices fading out._

_'Wendy.' Feel it out, looking to where just its head is poked out of the sheets. Blue flickers against the walls, but that's normal too. The light continues rotating._

_'...Stan.'_

_You list them off like it's a game. An elaborate trick to have your mind ease back into sleep. Waking up makes things better. Things will make sense during the day, at breakfast._

_Daddy doesn't make sounds like that. You don't know how he's hurt, but he doesn't cry. What makes more sense, is that this is a dream. He won't be scary to you in the morning. He will be making toast, cutting it the smaller squares that fit much better in your skinny fingers._

_A dream makes sense, and mommy taught you how to fight those too._

***

 

The room was dismal and unkept.

Stepping in the afternoon before with a rucksack and wad of converted cash in your right side pocket, it had looked about as impressive as a one bedroom halfway house inn could be expect to. Musk scented, shallow ceilings where plaster had previously been cracked then shoddily cocked over. The very first move you had made after running a hot bath and washing up, was to curl up under the bed slips and breathe it all in.

No rattling. No engine noises. Nothing but a distant rush of waves and the occasional fog horn.

The bed is what's comfortable, not the setting. So quiet that it reminds you of childhood.

But it's only four days, and you had figured the majority of that time would be spent in the city skirts, making sure your group of free-running assets kept on their leashes. The rooms were for sleeping.

 _Were_.

As it turned out, neither York or yourself had been all that interested in dinner. It was a rapid back-track to reach the inn, and momentary struggle with the key card with York's mouth on your neck. The undressing had come about hastily, clumsily and without a fraction of thought. There's no room for caution when every stray sense making up your logic is rooting you on, and York breathing heat on your skin, goading you further by the only name of yours he knows.

Afterwards, there's plenty of time for bits of your sense to piece back together. The concern is there, and those feelings of guilt you can no longer connect with all the way. You were reckless. You shut off logic. This happened.

...Why does reckless feel spectacular?

The mattress shifts next to you, legs brushing between yours. York's shoulder muscles flex, then tug as he grumbles a little and dangles his arm over the bedside.

Rolling onto your front you push yourself up from the elbows. "...Time is it?"

His hand grazes the floor and pulls up his phone, dropping heavily over to his back. The screen blinks online and his face scrunches. ..."Says 4:03 here. What're the time zones on this planet?"

"Who cares..."

..."Do we know a 'Lucy'?"

"What?"

"Something Connie sent me. Says she's with 'Lucy', only she spells it Lucssyy. Needs directions back to the inn." He squints at the screen. ..."Poor kid's gonna feel like shit tomorrow."

"I'm gonna feel like shit tomorrow."

York shifts, slanting the mattress to wind his arms around your waist. "I dunno, sounded like you enjoyed yourself pretty good from my end."

You feel a rumble surfacing on your tongue, but harness it as he fits himself up to your back.

"Gotta say," His lips peel for a yawn, unsettling that sensitive gap beneath your ear. ..."I've never been this worn out, so, kudos to you..."

"Oh really? Well then, never mind."

His body conceals it well but there's a moment where a muscle twitches up in his throat.

"Never mind what?"

You hum a little, disdainfully tucking an arm beneath your pillow.

"Come on, tell me." He presses, packing a little more of a lift to his voice. His arms bunch tight around your middle, forearms tickling your belly.

..."Nothing, I was just thinking of taking a bath. There's got to be plenty warm water running at this hour."

"Four in the morning?" York repeats blandly.

"What, you've never bathed this early?"

"I don't remembered the last time I _bathed_ , Lina."

You pry his arms loose to slip free, sliding free from the covers to sit upright. Overwhelming is the urge to keel back into the bed and let him continue to crush you. ..."So then I suppose you'd only revoke if I made an invite."

"Wha- whoa, wait, wait!" He makes a desperate sling hooking his arm around your leg. "There's an invite?"

"Did you want one?"

"Uh yeah," He half croaks, scattering the sheets to get up after you. With the additional momentum behind him, the lunge nearly has him collide with you. He's flustered and warm and his pulse is racing as you take his lips.

..."You're something else-" He gets out against your mouth. "Really... something-"

"York?"

"Lina..."

"Stop talking."

 

***

_Somewhere along the line the dolphin light broke. The belt went, then the socket stopped touching the bulb the right way. One hard door slam too many and the dresser rocked enough for it to make the suicide jump._

_He didn't ask about it when you took out the trash that evening. He doesn't ask, but you'll be okay._

_She taught you that too._

**End part one**

 

 


	10. chapter 9

**Part Two**  
  
  
The dishonesty has to be impulsive.

All the plans made that fell through, everything said that was never sincere, more often than not, all came from him. You've had to better yourself in order to determine when that honesty needs to be questioned.

A line up of enhancements have been ready for assigning for about a week. Most trial runs have been rocky, so you expect there's an underlying reason you've been asked here this evening. To be included in a procedures this intellectual is strange. What could you contribute to the implantation process, other than the knowledge of how long he's been removing you from it.

Rumors made for unwilling test subjects. Already the whispers of an energy shield malfunction have been breeding into the ranks, spreading Utah's incident around the upper floors like a super-flu virus. Soldiers like Connecticut like to murmur their own speculations on the process, and there are vulnerable ears she affiliates with. It's as though even the closest of your cohort forgets that your speed isn't genetic.

Run through hell, squeeze a trigger or slit a throat, move until the body physically can't. All of that they'll do for you. The very minute any of them are asked to play super soldier, the majority of these stone cold killers will tuck tails between their legs.

They'll tell you that you're meant to coerce, and so long as there's nothing that could prove the rumors to be anything more, you really couldn't care less what they tell you.

"Real sappy Momma Bear," Was what Connie thought of that. She's had a bit of a bite for everyone lately. The increase of assignments as well as intensity hasn't been favoring her, and she's been projecting that bitterness outward.

Detecting when people are pushing away is another of your adolescently-honed skills.

A parting hiss sounds from the far end of the room to which you're parallel and he strides into the conference room. A hand reaches to adjust his frames and for a moment you recognize weariness in the gesture. He makes his way around the scope of the table display.

"I'll assume she's been brought up to speed."

It feels like he's addressing you in third person until you notice the smaller silhouette that has followed him in. The Counselor makes himself thin in the shadows, breeching over the room towards the flat projector screen of table top.

"Carolina has been briefed on her escalation to this hand of the project."

"Very good." The tight corner of his jaw ebbs just a bit. "At the moment we have three enhancements cleared for field testing. Several of your squadmates have been sectored out as potential candidates. We have a healing unit, energy shield, and holographic projector all prepared for armor assignment." He rounds the projector table to stand alongside the Counselor who excuses himself from the panel. The Director hovers a hand over the screen, summoning up full periods of recorded history and the holographic display of Maine's physic.

About a thousand adjectives rush in to help categorize Maine with cybernetic enhancements, and none of which would do the man enough justice. Blood and terror, blunt and tactful, a muffin split with fingers, a frayed and calloused thumb smudging chocolate on your chin.

The display shivers away Maine's profile and you hope the tight gathering in your shoulders wasn't too obvious.

Most of them are dilatory thinkers. York might come to you with questions, Maine will have questions and keep to himself. The rest would fall somewhere between feeling anxious and feeling thrilled. You can just about visualize South's delight. South, who will glare after you when she feels it's clear to. South who could be concussed with a bullet lodged in one knee when you come charging into the fray and still snidely call out, _"It's a bird, no a plane, no, no, it's Agent 'Flash Whore'!"._

..."If you don't mind my asking, just what is it these enhancement are being handed out based on?"

"The selection process will be much the same as it is for anything else, Carolina."

"Then, leaderboard scores are what supply the candidates."

  
"You sound as though this bothers you."

"I'm not bothered. I'm just not sure how well the idea will plot out." You say evenly. "Agent South is above North on the roster, yet with his background and credentials I would think him to be a primary candidate for trial stage." Also that you can't see South as an even marginally illegible candidate for any form of sensitive equipment. "There are agents who might have better productivity with select units than they would others. That's a few factors too many for the leaderboard to tally against."

"Thankfully, these very tactful observations have already been taken into consideration." His voice lifts at the start, the way it does whenever you've given the wrong answer. "The board has been due for an update. Scores are being adjusted based on the new system. Newly formatted placements should be up later in the evening."

..."I look forward to seeing these results."

  
Schematics for the bubble shield replace the stats, expanded and very blue, rotating like there's a slight breeze in the room. The Counselor adjusts his board, writing something outside your view.

  
"The domed energy shield has been through limited trial runs. Equipment requires regular maintenance and calibration to keep up a field grade standard. We are fairly—" The projection flashes white. "... Apprehensive, of this integration."

"It'd be best suited for a more seasoned candidate. Agents Wyoming and North Dakota are being considered. They run group operations regularly and have managed the Beta squad on multiple occasions. Their stats by the end of the week will finalize the decision."

Your chin moves in agreement. Either men would make a good fit. Of course he knows the team as well as you. Probably better than you. That knowledge is almost comforting.

  
Then the projector field flashes a startling white.

  
In the time it takes for your attention to gather and the Counselor to glance up from his statistics, the light flashes again above the table, pixelating into clusters.

You've blocked out the room, observing the spec sized particles graft and blend together to resemble—

–"Okay, so that should have got most the bugs worked out. I installed kind of a theoretical reset button. Activate that and it'll dispatch back into its cubby hole. That thing is safetied and clean. Clean as dic–"

The A.I freezes frame, outstretched arms folding down ever so slowly. It pivots and you're struck silent by the most uncanny human attributes on a projection you've ever seen. A body decked in a white, dated Mjolnir A/U armor, shimmers with the fluttery motion of its gloved fingers. You watch the fingers net from opposing hands. There's a man's face where you're expecting the helmet. Narrow and chiseled and young, it stares back with the kind of shock and panic that could only be projected on a human being. Its bright eyes are wide, its mouth gapped open.

"Another one. A smart A.I."

"Hhoh shit," It speaks shakily, not quite looking away. "Shit, I thought–"

"Agent Carolina," The Director makes a show of his exalted sigh. "As it would seem.. you have now been _officially,_ exhumed into the inner workings of Project Freelancer."

"Seriously, I didn't know you guys were–"

"Carolina, this is unit A104, better known to us as, Alpha. Our resident smart A.I."

Your eyes run from the A.I's pixel feet on up, studying the armor design of its legs and chest, halting just above the shoulders, where the helmet has yet to synthesize. Without glasses, the face throws you for a beat.

"Alpha is our head of security, innovation technician, engineer and aid anywhere else he chooses to lend his attention." The Director's thumb runs along the side of his nose. "He is an important asset."

The stolen mouth glides into a smile, the A.I lifting its hand in a small wave.

"Why is this the first I'm hearing about it?"

The arm falters, Alpha's entire body drawing away from its awe. Convincing yourself you've only imagined that momentary flicker of surprised hurt, you steel your limbs and step up to the table.

"What is this, and what the _hell_ are we doing with it?"

  
..."Whoa, did she just..." The strange, automated voice sounds different. Gnarled and a little bit feral. The A.I. balls its fists. "Okay, I'm not an 'it'. I have a fucking name, bitch."

"Alpha, please retire."

"But– _what_? I haven't done anything!"

"Only for a moment. She requires an explanation."

Clenching on synthetic gauntlets, Alpha huffs and flickers out, leaving a residual phantom-like film in the air it had occupied.

  
"It is still very early in the Alpha's development, sir. It can't be expected to-"

"Agent Carolina, it goes without saying that anything imparted to you here goes no further than these walls." The Director carries on, cutting off the start of the Couselor's string of protests.   
"Alpha is a top secret asset, even from the crew of this ship. Am I clear?"

"Crystal." You respond, clearing away a significant amount of opinion.

"Director, Carolina is capable in command, but she cannot be held accountable for–"

"Counselor, go see to Alpha. I can assume he's giving himself some trouble."

..."Of course, sir." The Counselor lowers his register, as though an inside exchange has been made. He gives the two of you plenty space in his decent across to the far side of the room.

A distant murmur commences near the back of the room and you pick out the higher rise and crackle of speech, a voice that suddenly sounds both familiar and fraudulent. A throat clears softly and it's still a shock how hard you flinch.

"How much do you recall of the early stages with F.I.L.S.S?"

You remember plenty.

The prototype stage where you weren't allowed friends over because of all the cables and stray wires loose in the study through to the kitchen. A pile up of microwave dinners and time spent being carted around by neighbors and grandparents because 'dad has to work'.

The afternoon he finished the thirty-fourth model, you were thirteen getting off the school bus. Unlocking the front door and charging in to a suspended voice that could only repeat an inserted string of dialogue.

— _"Thank you for using the HP envy 36-a053! Thank you for using the HP envy 36-a053!"_

"I remember." You nod, glancing at the pronounced creases above his brow. "Is it... Alpha's something like that?"

"Alpha is much more of a something than that."

"A smart A.I."

"He's still developing. Emotional core is in full production and the scale is extraordinarily above average, particularly for an A.I. of Alpha's age. There have been... complications. Complete integration could require an additional grace period, granted he has time to become fully acclimatize. For the time being, we have him managing equipment fluxes on the ship."

"Are you... It's intended as a field asset."

"That is the general idea."

"But not like F.I.L.S.S?"

"F.I.L.S.S. relays and automates instructions. Alpha shows potential as a component capable of stratagem, field engineering, odd calculations, and that only goes to the extent of his intellect now. Alpha has a mind built upon inherent abilities that allow him to perceive and expand. We can expect great things from him."

—"What's the fucking point? She doesn't like me!"

Heightened to a pitch that squeaks, the voice across the room cuts down your conversation.

"You are showing signs of agitation, Alpha–"

"I'm fine."

"It is perfectly natural. You have been given a very strenuous workload. As we've discussed, management is key. Emotional straining can be a self-destructive outlet under your current condition."

"I said I'm fine. I feel fine, seriously."

"Counselor, if I could speak with you a moment." The Director interrupts, dislodging himself from your discussion. "Alpha, you're free to go."

The A.I. stomps the air as it turns, shooting off a rebellious glare.

"Hey, and don't think I'm not following this trend going on here, where you throw the shrink at me then move to the other side of the room all evasive and shit."

"It's only a safety measure Alpha. For your own safety–"

"He's fine, Counselor." The Director dismisses, stepping around the hologram and his colleague. "He's doing fine."

  
They move around the conference table and almost instantly become cloaked outside of the monitor's lights. Being excluded doesn't settle well, but you may not be cleared for all they are discussing. What you've started to notice, are fleeting glances the Counselor administers, small little nuances to convey to convey empathy.

  
You wonder just how much that private record says about you. York might know, or he might not. As the irrational sentimentalist he is, he might have purposefully avoided an invasion of that degree. He has been awfully  faithful. So no. Probably not York. The Counselor though, he knows things. Absolutely knows things. Private things. Things that could still be grafted and used to wound.

"I'm not crazy."

You flinch, having completely forgotten about the A.I. It's hovering much closer to your shoulder than you recall it being before. The A.I., Alpha you remind yourself, has both arms folded to mirror yours, projected brow crinkled and thin, mimicking the scowl on its mouth.

"There's nothing wrong with me, so like, you don't have to feel sorry for me or anything... Not like I care either way."

"Who says I don't like you?"

The Alpha's head jerks in one sharp motion.

"You just said to him that you don't think I like you. Why?"

"Uh, because you don't? All I do is pop up and you act like you're up for taking somebody's head off."

…"There are things about you, that I don't think I like. But you don't have to make social assumptions like that without enough evidence. ...I'll only be able to dislike you once I get a larger frame of reference."

"You know, you really make simple human behavior sound like an explanation of particle theory."

"Then I don't think you're hearing me. I'm one of the dumb jocks."

"Huh." The Alpha taps the toe of one boot in the air. ..."So... based on the whole, proven evidence theory, would I be allowed to say I dislike _you_?"

You release the tight breath in your chest and direct it into a glare at other the end of the room.

"Yeah, that was a joke. I know your background and I've read your military record."

"How long have you been a component to Freelancer?"

The A.I. goes for the lure like it's a lifeline. "Longer than any of you guys, I’ll tell you that." Its quarter sized head cants to the right, and just for a second the gesture gets you thinking of gymnasium stands and summer afternoons. The images distort when the A.I. snorts, synthetic and dry. "What, are you curious? I knew you were all like, pushy, badass on steroids and shit. Never pegged you as the Nancy Drew type."

You grind your molars slightly. "You don't spend much time around women, do you?"

"Hey, that is so not the case. I know women."

"That so."

"Yeah that's fucking _so_."

"Well then, I apologize."

"Sure. Whatever." It hovers above the key panel. "Cause like, I've got an entire repertoire of anthropological experience from time on this boat alone. I could do a fucking seminar on 'shady-bitch' types." 

"Have you been spying on my soldiers?"

"I get bored, and the after-hour feeds can be entertaining, specially if somebody's drunk or fuckin' around. It's educational."

"It's stalking."

For a split second you think the A.I. is rebooting. When an odd, static hiccup comes out of it you jerk.

"Sorry, sorry," The Alpha says, bringing the laugh down to a snicker. "That's not the first time somebody's said that."

Any further appraisal of yours is cut short as the Director and Counselor return to their respected ends of the table. The Alpha drifts away, resuming its position above the Director, arms wound behind its back.

The projector's components on display piece and your legs carry you forward into the table ledge. Back to more important matters.

"A healing unit." The Counselor supplies. "Donated from the U.N.S.C's collection. We were able to repair the minor damage conducted to its electrical linings, to an extent the only draw back of this unit is that it requires its recharge time before the full power surge may move into affect."

  
You had only seen the portable ones briefly, moving between sites and on the occasions you met up with camp assigned Spartans. The units were inclusive to uniforms, good for rapid response time and single man operations. Run in, run out. A Spartan could run for days without checking in because these wonderful little gadgets have the power to dope you up and glue you back together.

This one requires thought, because it is a very real danger to most if not all of your squadmates. How many of them would abuse the idea of a body that actively repairs itself? South and Maine are immediately drawn off. Someone with a head that operates to survive, someone who could benefit from a small boost, to mend recklessness and promote success rates…

"Agent York." You fish his name out from a pool of others. “It’s a good match for York.”

Under the front console’s backdrop you watch the Director's lenses catch light.

"Agent New York." The Counselor draws up his own stats. "He's accountable in the field, manages solitary operations. Highly susceptible to enemy arms."

"Well sure, he gets plenty of holes in him. Like that’s a fucking anomaly..."

You're already swivelling towards the end of the A.I.'s interference. To its credit, the Alpha doesn't flinch away from your glare. If anything, it takes in the look beneath your visor to amplify its own resolve.

"Did you have something you'd like to share, Alpha?" The Director exhales.

"Only that I just breezed through the entirety Maine's records while you guys were talking. Success rates are consistent for the most part, and he gets a lot of enemy attention. He gets slotted with Wash a whole lot, and between the two of them my tally count rounds off some hellish medical history. Or, if you're still into the balancing, Wash is up with the top dogs and a few more good runs should get him a place up with the top five. Both of them would be prime candidates. Whether on group assignments or slotted in pairs, the benefits of a healing unit could be retrofitted for both scenarios."

It feels like a direct jab at you, and whether or not that's the case you feel your jaw setting.

Alpha's cluster swirls in your direction, sensors flaring up; primed readily. "Course, if Carolina thinks she's got the better guy, that’s her call.”

Going against a smart A.I. Probably not the most popular move. Still, you've never really been known for your compliancy.

"I want Agent York fitted."

There would be more mods. Plenty. The others would each get their turns.

The Alpha goes silent, a hover humanoid of light above the Director. It watches with a flat expression as the Counselor makes your decision final, the fringe of its avatar taking up a momentary shade of grey.

"What's the next one mod?"

"Last mod," The Alpha corrects, drifting to the far end of the table. Making a show of raising the projection with its arms the A.I. draws up the final mod's schematics. You recognize the layout of specs before the finished enhancement is on screen. You weren't on the mission for this one, the story is one that’s been passed around. The actual and the exaggerated.

An infiltration team comprised of Freelancer's finest geeks were dropped off an Insurrectionist run fueling station. Apprehending the data goes smoothly enough, but while York's calling in an extraction somebody trips the alarms. They're forced to maneuver through the dock’s armory to regroup and just barely make it out by the skin of their teeth. It was only once the pelican had touched down safely in the MOI's landing bay that Connie displayed her stolen goods.

You believe it to be one of York's proudest moments by the way he still boast about how she just started laying out experimental mods on the launch pad, inventory including yet not limited to a fully equipped electro pulse generator, and an extremely covenanted–

"–Holo projector." The Alpha diverts, propping its hands to its hips. "Who do we wanna saddle with this bad boy?"

_—"Connie-girl strikes again. Robs 'em all blind. You know what? She can_ have _my spot. I don’t care, she’s earned it."_

"Connecticut."

Silence combusts like a smoke bomb within the room.

..."Agent Connecticut, has the lowest rankings among the top agents." The Counselor says, eyes rotating between yourself and the Director. “There are specific standards to these assignments,"

Alpha fidgets, providing an anxious back glow above the Director while he shifts. "Carolina, you have just made quite the suggestion. Would you care to justify any of it?"

"Things are speeding up." You say. "Conflicts with Insurrectionist on Earth have only been getting grittier. Connecticut is struggling to keep up."

"Yes she is." He doesn't waver, an intense virulent stare boring into yours. "Should it not be up to her acting CO to make alterations that might enable her to improve?"

..."I’m doing my best, sir."

He looks at you from over his frames for another full pause, then pushes up from the table. "Alpha, mark Agent Connecticut down for the holographic projector."

The avatar has gone silent. Looking over you can see its mouth moving, like it could be murmuring to itself.

The Director tilts his neck back, impatient. "Alpha.”

A.I. looks up, and this time you’re positive that it’s not just you who sees Alpha pulse aqua before adjusting back to white.

"Alpha, what were you just asked?"

..."To pull up the holo-projector?"

The Director's shoulders move with a sigh almost eerily akin to the one Alpha had shed. There’s slant in his stance, a projection of frustration that the A.I. seems to pick up on as well.

Alpha tucks his chin and excuses itself, taking itself out of suspension with an electric hum.

"As I said," The Director vents, rubbing an eye beneath his glasses. "Complications."  
  
.  
.

  
"Hey, Big Red."

You're waiting on the elevator to take you back down to your level when there's a spark of light in front of the doors. Pixels sync together and a half-pint humanoid takes form at eye level.  
Conveniently the doors part their way and it's no hindrance moving around the glowing apparatus. The affronted sound comes out when your shoulder brushes through a cluster of its left leg and instead of materializing in your face Alpha swivels sharply, facing you off with a flustered look to its face. "Oh okay, yeah, ignore me. Am I not good enough to talk to? Just a piece of hardware, is that it?"

"I'm not ignoring you." You redeem, catching how it appraises that with a twitch of its brow. "I can hear you, I'm listening. I’m just not talking."

The doors start to seal as the shaft prepares to collect input to the next level. You have to look down to set the panel to the third floor. When you look up Alpha is inches from your face. Your legs abruptly jolt you backwards into the opposite end of the box, metal on metal resounding with a low bowel sound.

"Hey, right. Personal space. Sorry, that was my bad."

Alpha is behaving cautiously. You note the uneasy way it’s rocking in mid air. It's a little bit impressive just how much of the emotional aspect goes into it. Impressive but unsettling.

"I really don't have a problem with, York."

Your gaze flicks, sizing up the small details of its face. The lower part of its lip pulls nervously so you zero in there.

"I just, didn't really consider him for something like that, having studied his track record. He's kinda badass, right? I mean, jackass, but badass."

A snort slips out and although you’re quick to snuffle it, Alpha is faster and suddenly there’s a little of swagger back in its stance.

"So like, just wanted to be clear about that. I wasn't trying to go over your head or anything, I've just... I know pretty much everything about these tools—agents too. Maine's like, fucking terrifying, and Wash struck me as the type who would do well with a little encouragement. We would see some good things coming out of it."

You take the pause between Alpha's explanation to rest back against the wall. "I won’t have my team easing off just because they think they are able."

"Come on, Carolina, I've been running trials on these things for months. This was my personal project. Under limited usage, they're perfectly sound.”

"Well don't you like making yourself out as quite the big deal."

"I am a huge deal. I've got a hand in every wire of our web of intelligence. Mods require a pipeline to maintain full capacity which is where I come in. Current routers are shit but just give me a couple weeks. Because of me, you guys are about to have access to advancements anywhere anyplace anytime. Unlimited wifi. It's what your friendly neighborhood A.I. is here for."

"Providing security is what I'm here for.” You contradict. “Group runners like Wash and Maine don’t have to worry about solitary raids, they'll never have to manage a mission."

"And what if there’s a someday?"

"I'll be there." Come hell or high water. "Your weapons won’t keep my soldiers breathing, Alpha.”

"Huh," He swings one of his legs. "I wasn’t expecting something so deep, from a meathead jock."

"When did I say meathead?"

The pixels around his mouth crackle. "Anyway, I just wanted to catch you and... you know, clarify. I just only with the guys because they seem to have it in their heads they can digest bullets or something,"

"Then you should have understood why it was I found the mod to be inappropriate. I try not to contribute towards giving teammates a false sense of security."

"Sure that's what it was? I may be newer to the loop than most, but I kinda feel that the people around here like to play favorites."

..."Are you always trying to incite something or are your memory banks really that dense?"

The pout that takes over its face is almost good enough to warrant the irritation you had to take for it.

"Cut me some slack, it's not like I do this very often."

"I’m never going to cheat anyone out of an opportunity I know they can handle. I think I would know my squad better than that." _'Better than you,’_

The chime that signals your floor goes off before you've realized that you used its name.

_His_ name.

Alpha is the first to recover from your mutual fumble. He clears his throat, tilting his head away into the opposite corner of the box. "So uh... What's your schedule like?"

..."Are you asking me if I have plans?"

"Well yeah, and uh no. Not really. Wh-Wait. Are you... laughing?"

"No. Not really,"

"Hey, well... don't."

Your face pulls, more so when he stomps his foot.

“Quit it!"

The squawk resounds high enough for an electronic crackle to encompass it and you have to force the chuckle to die in your throat. Alpha is glaring, but there's a look to his false face.

"Yes. I’m bad at this." He says stiffly. "I mean, by default I'm fucking incredible, but this is... This is sort of different."

You can swear there's something scared in his voice, something smaller and skittish. Almost, but not quite human.

Alpha releases a huff and you watch that small clench and unclench of his fists. He glances up and his physical form nearly shies from you. "Just, don't laugh, okay?"

A rough beat of silence, and the accompanying chime sounds. The doors part and you move through. Alpha remains hovering inside the shaft, like he has his position staged just so. You catch him staring down at his transparent boots and inhale steeply.

"I have a workout session with Maine."

Alpha's head snaps up.

"After that, I have an open block for the next half hour."

Startled, Alpha's upper body pixels shimmer and crackle. "Oh. Oh, okay..." His head drops back down, but the lift in his shoulders is unmistakeable. "But uh... Don't you have, like, actual shit to get done? Somewhere else to be? Something important to be doing?"

"I'm giving you a window, Alpha."

"A window, to hang out?"

You roll your eyes and exhale, exiting the shaft.

"Wait! -Uh huh, I mean... hold up would ya?" His light hovers, holding place like he can't decide whether to take his leave or follow you out into the hall. He settles on his position, making a show of clearing his throat. "I'll uh... Do you want me to just, call you? Or..."

"Send me an alert."

"Oh uh, alright. Sure. So I uh... See you later I guess."

"I guess." You repeat, concealing any of the amusement that had surfaced over his bewilderment.

"Alright. Okay, hey- try not to get your face bashed in too much, Red."

You snort, flipping him off as the elevator doors seal.  
  
.

.

.  
  
"This all comes out of my pocket. You know that?"

Niner is loud.

She's loud, and unpleasant, and not nearly sleep-deprived enough for this trip the be enjoyable.

One of the first game nights the crew had managed to orchestrate in months. Interrupted. Devastated. _Massacred._ It's a tragedy that you've gotten to hear all about.

When she carries on lamenting over into the Arctic circle, incoming flurries start to interfere with transmitters. When you sigh it's only a crackle out your vocal mod.

"Do you think I'm overjoyed to be out this early?"

"I think you _live_ for this type of adrenaline butt-fucking. Wouldn't surprise me at all if you dove into the water now and swam the rest of the way."

"Not today. We're on the clock."

She grumbles something that the interference swallows, adjusting her grip around the throttle. The ease is extremely subtle, but against an additional drag of atmosphere you can feel the ship's deceleration in ripples coming through the floor. "I had a full hand and Connecticut was gonna fold. Eighty six bucks. That's eighty six of York's dollars I lost to an emergency pick up."

"Circle the block for me and I'll leave you a tip."

The click of her tongue is amplified by static. "Gotta say, this is a side of you I'm not finding attractive. Attitude central ever since you've been getting laid regularly."

The adjustment and sways of turbulence come so naturally that little else is required to keep balance as you move from the cockpit to the rear of the ship. You're just about in position when the audio link next to your ear connects.

_< Come in Number one.>_

Settling with the rock of the ship, you take one of the handle bars from the row of seats and supply an uplink.

"Number one here,"

_<...Number one you are clear for infiltration, submitting coordinates now. Prepare for drop and wait for the green. >_

"Copy that. Readying up."

Pulling up with the railing you glance toward the back ramp. The cast of your on arm bows through the view and you take a moment to scrutinize the paint layer. You'll change the camouflage over to black on board. For now, conserving enough power for the run takes precedence. The intercom announces itself with a crackle, carrying out Niner's deliberate yawn.

"A little birdie told me you got pulled outta bed for this." She drawls, slouching an arm against the dash.

"Who says I was in bed?"

She sits up a little at that, making a short sound of approval. "Well, well, Miss Carolina. Getting a little adventurous?"

"I was training. In the _training_ room." You flick the edge of your gauntlet to your shin and slouch. ..."My private life, is not open for discussion."

"Well I don't know what to tell you, chief. We've got a pretty narrow network, and shit just keeps circulating. Gossip hounds gotta feed somehow."

"I had no idea you were all so sex-starved."

"You speak for your horny, painted easter egg, groupies. I'm getting plenty."

"Oh I see." The airlock supports rattle like wide chimes of steel, rocking your row of seats. "Is that why I've been seeing less and less of you in the after hours? Who's the guy?"

"Who says it's a guy?" She retorts, the barest of chuckles in her throat. "Who says it's been singular?"

Your radio takes this moment to crackle.

_< Number one you are green for go. Good luck>_

"Won't need it." A strong bellow of air nearly tows you out over the ramp as you grasp at the side rails. Risking it further, you take a look back over a shoulder to call back at the cockpit. "I take it there's little chance left for us?"

"Sorry cupcake, but I don't do York's sloppy seconds." She drops an arm to a panel on her right and the back drop of the pelican protests under squeals of alloy, suction starting to carry you forward. Her voice raises against the volume. "My condolences! No woman should have to serve time with a guy that awful with his hands!"

"Then to whatever could've been!"

"Get the fuck off my ship!"

You take a leap from the ramp and let the vacuum pluck you up, wind snagging your body like strings on a kite. The outdoor temperatures hit with wind and weightlessness and you're plummeting. The wind quiets down to a hiss against armor, steel and sound barriers melding to perform the illusion of a cocoon around your limbs. The transition from cold silence of the clouds comes fast, the clap of upcoming gunfire clashing around in open space from miles down. Then metres.

The plain of white expands beneath you at 1200 ft, where you're adjusting for hands and knees to takes the blunt of impact and have the speed modulator sinced for the charge. Your knees hit first and send a thunder clap through the ice. Something crackles below as you push up from all fours, shock absorbers humming from the strain.

Kicking off from that starting position you move, cutting the air with your limbs, ticking off meters from the targeted zone.

Mods accommodating the terrain takes a bit out of your incite for the burst, but you don't need endurance for this sprint. The glacier seethes beneath your created heat, and you're flying dangerously low on backup energy. It really should not be giving you this kind of a high.

The glacier ends just short of the coordinates you've calculated, a rough building width away from where the lights and backup alarms are signaling. Mid stride you reach for your right mag strap, pulling back the latest upgrade to your outfit. The grappling hook whistles through air, resounding a low thump of connection as it holds fast and you're lifted from your feet.

Momentum from the sprint carries you in a sharp lance over the black water, where ripples of the surf meet steel and stone. Up and over the rail and then you're on a sturdy platform, distant alarms sounding from the floors below.

Cloaked in the dark you stick to the inside of the boardwalk, keeping tabs on both lilac signatures projected running. They're headed towards the south end of the platform. Airlift pad.

Boosting into a sprint makes it harder to keep silent, but you have the camouflage to maintain stealth.

The twins are slowing, moving in synchronized motions and using the back of the ship as a bottleneck. With the pelt of machine guns ringing your helmet shell, you round at the end of the deck and where it's clearer to see down. An incoming artillery line up, with North and South heading the charge. Right into your corner.

You slow down out of the race, backing away into the shadows. Passing the fourth smokestack a spring packs itself to your stride and you launch up and over the walkway. The weight plunges to your ankles and palms, a dull clang on steel that goes muffled by the increase of gunfire. You notice condensation forming over the bottom of your visor and force your breathing to a cycled calm.

The twins silhouette's are violet and still as an artillery depot sprints across the boardwalk, snapping and shoving at each other in suspended panic. Like the greens of a fire squad experiencing their first night bombing away from home.

Your fists fold and clench, you shift the targeting parameters of your visor, and all the greens become red.


	11. chapter 10

The magenta cyclone leaves a flurry of distention in her wake. Crew members, still startled, skirt to the walls for you. A particularly jumpy attendant actually goes vocal and yelps when you brush her arm on your way by. Up ahead echoes the very visceral outrage of an agent on a rampage.

Heeding North's recommendation might've proven to be less detrimental for either of you, but it was certainly not in the best interest of the crew. When she plows through another cluster of troopers you've just about reached the end of your patience.

"Cum-guzzling mother fuckers–stay the fuck outta my way–"

"South Dakota,"

She swivels a wild 180 and sticks it. "What the fuck do you want from me, Carolina?"

"You need to cool down."

"Who's not cool? I'm cool. Fucking deep-freeze– you can cool the fuck down!" The thin icy pools of her irises gleam, then they flick over your shoulder. "And what are you cocksucker's looking at?"

A cluster of choppy footsteps sound off against the floor, abruptly fading out into opposite direction as the startled attendees disperse.

..."There is no one other than yourself to blame. Points were deducted due to your reckless abandonment. I have been telling you for months to clean up your act. You threw us a mission."

"I completed the objective!" She explodes, swinging her arms in bewilderment. "I infiltrated their hardware–I delivered an assload of elicit UNSC laboratory data. Yeah, I think the words you're looking for are, 'Jesus, thank you, South! How can we ever repay you?'."

"I understand that you'd be willing to risk the safety of our next team running an assignment over Insurrectionist turf, so you get to understand me. I will not accept this behavior. If you can only see the effects this deduction has on your ranking, then you have some serious correcting to do. You've been acting like a spoiled little girl."

South's glare winces like she's been struck. "Wow, Carolina... okay. Sure. Is that how you've been managing? By rolling up your sleeves and sucking it up?" The upper half of her lips curls away as she chuffs. "You know what? Maybe I'll try that. All the brown nosing you do seems to go a quite a way."

"I'm at the top because I'm consistent. Don't look at the roster as a leaderboard. This is not a contest of who's better than someone else, it represents our compatibility."

"Oh I mean no disrespect. I'm saying, what you do seems like it works well enough. Who knows, maybe I'm in luck and you're giving out recommendations. Christ knows Connie doesn't deserve half the shit she's been getting from the people upstairs."

When you only continue to glare, South folds her arms and makes an impatient chuff.

"I just need to know exactly who to fuck around here to make some sort of requisition."

..."Pardon me?"

"Who are you screwing, Carolina? An official? Some fucking bigwig, three-piece?"

Beneath the helmet your jaw comes loose, lips parting.

Remember to breathe. _Breathe_.

Once the shock has surpassed, it leaves you with something hard. Fury and disgust tighten into a knot in your breast. "You are pathetic. Just, pathetic South. You think my spot is illegitimate? And North swiping yours, was that undeserved?"

"This isn't about North,"

"Oh I'm sorry, this is your moment, isn't it? This is your big hallway tantrum special. God forbid it becomes any less about a sad little girl still fishing from her pool of insecurities. Can I just ask, who's attention you're aiming for? Who is it making you try so fucking _hard_?"

Two wide strides and she is in your space, glaring down from the darkest of turmoiling pits. "You better back the fuck off, Carolina."

"So you dish it, but you can't take it, South?"

There's a wildness behind her blazing glare, and as you take the final step that puts your visor at less than an inch from her nose, that glare warps into a muted threat.

"Some of us are better at what we do than others. It's not meant to be confusing. Some of us have been preforming exceptionally while others having been falling behind. Start thinking beyond your rivalries, South, and work your ass off so that you just might be able to hold the spot you have. North is exactly where he should be, where he was brought here to be."

"I don't need to hear about North. What's fucking life worth if I haven't heard enough about North?"

"Your brother was was recruited for this. You got yourself a free ride and now you're panicking because it's starting to show."

South looks like she's going to hit you. "You can't say I don't deserve to be here."

"I will call it as I see it."

The glade of her chin trembles and her fist tightens into a fold. There's space between you again when she exhales, releasing it all at once. Then you're looking at her back, as she's moving angry and fast down the opposite corridor.

"...What the hell was that?"

Rotating a shoulder to clear path for your visor, you see the outline of North, having been there god knows how long. The stitches over his brow line have crusted over, but the blood in his hair has been washed out to where the red is now vaguely pink against otherwise marbled features.

"She needed to hear it from someone." You state, taking his anger with a dose of apathy. "She has to learn."

"What was any of that gonna teach her?"

He waits, tall and obstructing at your back, until it becomes apparent that you have nothing. Even his presence radiates disappointment as he glides by your side on past, rushing to catch his sister who's already a few leads ahead of him.

.

.

.

"I've been starting to sense that there are, conformities in this relationship."

Quietly dazed, your eyes squint a little against the monitor's light. The observations deck's combined equipment emits a blend of dreary hums that drone comfortably to the back of your head. They compliment the increase of pleasantries coming out of the gentle weight of York's hands over your shoulders.

An offended sounds ripples in you throat. "Don't ruin this for me,"

"Around when does it become my turn?"

..."Five more minutes."

"Sure. You've only been saying that for the last hour..."

When you fail to acknowledge further he chuffs and leans a little more against your back. He drops his face into the divide between your shoulders, freshly shaven and soft. That sensation and the heat of his breath down your back...

"Five minutes." You demand, redirecting focus away from a rise of goosebumps. ..."Set an alert if you don't trust me."

Another puff of heat on your shoulders sends another impure sizzle through the muscle surrounding your spine. Still lazy and grumbling under his breath, York begins the shift back up to his forearms. When his hands get back to teasing the tension out of your frame, everything from your scalp to your toes goes lax against the bed. He does something with his knuckles to the low side of your back that has you catching a mewl in your throat.

"...Oh, that... Keep doing that."

His hands. Those hands... God, how does one set of hands know so much?

"–What's it gonna take me?"

With endorphins making you dizzy you barely catch the end of that. "What?"

The rotation of his wrists slows but doesn't cease. ..."What we were talking about earlier. Before this part of the evening."

"...It's a little difficult to enjoy this pampering when you're trying to use me as a therapist, York."

"Hey now, I'm being serious." His palms grow still. "Doesn't this feel... important, to you? I mean, not that I think I'm all that or anything. I just..." You glance back a little over your shoulder and he misinterprets it as a signal to continue his administrations. His hands return to your skin, lowering down to the symmetrical dimples above the ridge of your shorts. His easy pressing sets off of wave of blinding white relief, and you nearly miss the next question.

"What is this to you?"

Those completely lax sectors of your body all at once want to go rigid. In the moment's weakness, a short bite of a chortle slips through your lips, sending cracks through the silence.

"What's the problem, York? Casual supply closet sex not hitting it for you anymore?"

His arms stiffen. You find yourself regretting those words in the wave of tension that follows.

"You can call me old fashioned, but I think the 'casual fucking' term was no longer applicable once this became more regular than; 'on leave; let's bang', bed buddies."

The pulse pounding in your neck fills the silence, and you become very aware of York's soft pressure on your skin.

..."You know what the regulations are." It's an excuse. The sturdiest you can think up.

"I'm not asking if it's alright to go around broadcasting it." He defends, taking his voice a few octaves lower. "...So, scenario. We're off this boat, going to have dinner with your folks. You really think they're not gonna be confused as hell when we're referring to each other as States?"

"I don't see that scenario coming into play anytime soon," Still, a tired smile crosses your lips. "and I am painfully astounded that you haven't yet seen the appeal to having secret agent aliases." You rotate up onto an elbow, quietly lamenting York's warmth sliding away. Pushing gently on his back he lets you rotate your position with his, smile slanting out of a suspicious line to one of affection in the bate of an eye. With more care than necessary, you guide him down to his chest on the cot. You settle your hands into the dip of his shoulders, taking a moment to span his coiled muscles before digging in.

..."Doesn't have to be your name. Just...Something?..." His back curls slightly as you drop your hands drop below his shoulder blades and rotate pressure, but still keeps his mouth running over an exhale. "...It's so easy to feel... like this is all one-sided."

You knead your knuckles slower along his spine. "How so?"

"It's not that I'm not happy with what we've got." He amends, grunting heavily as you press into a particularly tight knot low in his back. "...It just, it feels like I'm the only one talking..."

You nearly gift that with another playful quip, but reconsider it. "We're talking now."

"Sure, technically. But I meant like, the important stuff." He mumbles it into his forearm. ..."Don't you ever get curious about me?"

"It's against regulation to share histories."

"You don't have to give me a surname or an address. I have no intentions of issuing a report. I'm interested in you. I want to know you."

Your fingers slow, dragging out a squeeze to his shoulders. "You're interested, in me."

"Thought I was making that pretty clear..."

The relaxed slump of his shoulders sends an uneasy prickle down your forearms and along your spine. ..."You want some of the good stuff?"

"Good stuff."

He has no idea you've already considered breaking it off several times. How and why the majority of Freelancer has been keeping this relationship under wraps is beyond you. One vengeful asset opening their mouth is all it would take to have either one of you lose your positions, or even being expelled from the program altogether.

..."I'll start us out, alright? My favorite color is-"

"Colors? What, are we five?"

"-My favourite color is green." He presses. "I left home at sixteen and spent two years on my own. I spent two years eating stale burger buns with ketchup packets from the outback dumpsters of an Astro Burger. My oldest sister will be forty this year, and last I checked, is happily married with three kids. My youngest sister is sixteen and wicked good with numbers and figures. Someday she's gonna be up here designing space ships."

Your fingers still. ..."You miss them?"

His shoulders stiffen for a moment but then they shrug. "Some of them. Not enough to go back to living with the others though. From time to time the youngest will try to reach me, but I think that has more to do with the romanticism of having a big brother running special ops and fighting aliens under a secret organization." Only half of his smile is exposed, the majority of his face mashed against his arm.

...

"My favorite color was yellow."

York's face rolls over his arm, eyes focusing.

"Yellow because, those were the best tasting Skittles and the last time I can remember thinking that it was my favorite was when I was eight. When I was sixteen, started running eight miles a day, and I went through this period where all I drank was raspberry water..." Your fingers slow, feeling the tension seeping away down his spine, gathering the nerve to proceed. ..."The last time I saw my mother I was five."

Under your hands his muscles clench and you resettle focus back to that tight spot above his shoulder. York's torso rises and falls and your eyes settle between the worn back of his shirt. It catches you quite suddenly when his hand winds around your wrist, his gentle squeeze creating nausea in your belly.

..."We don't have to talk,"

"It's fine."

Yorks sentences himself to silence, pressing his cheek against the blanket and you keep your hands rotating.

..."Her favorite color was blue. Dark blue. Like the bottom of an ocean or shade of the night sky. 'The most mysterous of all colors', she use to say about it."

Your hands quit moving when he feels loose enough, and York doesn't protest the end of your doting. His earthy warm eyes follow you up as you rest on your stomach next to him. They hold yours as though on the verge of a lazy dream.

"Did she have a favorite movie?"

You remember she did. You remember what she liked to eat whenever she would watch it with you.

You know the time of her fastest marathon and the black pickup she drove. She called your dad Leo'nerd', and stuck her tongue in his ear while he was shaving. She wore her ponytail low. She always smelled of old leather and cedar trees in the fall. She called you her little Spitfire.

York is all smiles as you divulge it all. When a memory makes you laugh, it's as though he gets stuck, staring at you ridiculously even after the moment has passed. He keeps on smiling, projecting an illusion of being touched by the sun.

"You know you're amazing?"

"Sorry?" You repeat, unaware of how long its been since you stopped massaging and were swept away by the gilded haze of old memories.

"You." York says, no mistaking that wonder and reverence. "Every time you get a little deeper into your stories, your face... You, get this smile."

..."And?" You try to bend your perplexed tone into something more like a challenge.

"And, now I want to watch you talk about your mom some more."

..."It's getting late."

"Who cares," York shifts over on his elbows, leaning in closer to your face. Your mouth wrinkles into cringe when he kisses the top of your nose. "I haven't had nearly enough of you..."

"Get off of me, York."

He lifts his brow and the corner of his mouth, bracing himself with an elbow on either side of your body. "I kinda like this angle,"

"Of course you do."

His grin grows wider as he settles on his arms, chest to yours as you adjust onto your back, the tough muscles of his stomach pressing to yours. The cluttered feeling of wings beat low in your abdomen, and it if not for the seconds of MOI's regimented schedule looming overhead...

Putting your palms up to York's chest, you push against his weight and roll away from the inviting pull of his body. "Time for bed."

"But Connie's not back yet." He whines, following up with a slow protest. his disappointment progresses as you drift straight to the door.

"Connie, gets off to pushing her limits." You retort, guiding him with your eyes. "And you running into her tonight –that's not a talk I'm up for right now."

"You ever feel like between her and Wash we've already got the kids?" He grumbles, and it's a lot easier to scowl at him when his lips aren't crushing against yours. Prying loose again takes another few minutes.

Once he's out, you're given about five seconds of quiet. It's just about enough time for you to lay back in bed, closing your eyes to enjoy the serenity. And then there's a blinding light flaring to life directly over your head.

"Good God, I thought he was never gonna to finish..."

You're blind as Alpha's white light fills your corner of the room, spooling across the mess of your bed sheets. He makes his way at a hover to the bedside table, arms folded tightly into a pout. The normally reserved sheen of his glow has been deliberately replaced by an obnoxious holy-glow expressing his mood.

"So like, was he looking for the tongue he dropped down your throat?"

"No one told you to watch."

The A.I. makes a small flustered sound, undeniably working himself up. "Uh, well excuse me but when I make my appointments I show up for them."

The urge to roll your eyes comes with a breeze of irritation. The guile his self-awareness commits to embodying is almost uncanny to that of his maker.

"Tell me you weren't really thinking of blowing me off for the guy who almost electrocuted himself making toast."

"It's not blowing if I only used my hands."

The upper half of his white cluster seizes, then he makes a small gaging sound. ..."Jesus, please don't tell me that stuff."

A short laugh snaps off your tongue. "Have I made you uncomfortable Alpha?"

He looks at you, long and penetrating. "Truce, alright?"

You concede with a hum, the sound of it muffled against your arm. ..."Connie's going to be back within the hour. How about we move this along."

With an air of irritation, Alpha begins telling you about his day.

He drifts up above your head while doing so, crossing his legs like he intends to stay for a while. He chatters away as she close your eyes and process it all. Letting him complain about internals to his heart's content was something you got the sense he wasn't allowed much leeway to.

Let's not go as far as saying you've grown fond of him, but his shifting demeanour and previous efforts towards pursuing you that have you believing that the same couldn't be said for him. Still, there's this gut wrenching churn of wariness you gain after talking with him. Never before have you taken such a delve into one of your father's interests, much less done so willfully. If he knew about Alpha's obsession, he hadn't yet approached you about it. In the mean time, Alpha keeps coming back to you.

He has vectorial pointers that should assist Wash in executing the varial kickflip he's been trying to get down. He's been working out several bucket loads of methods for the speed unit to compress muscle exertion without maxing out the unit. He makes fun of the '230s' Thriller Thursdays' York organizes, and he tampers with the inventory lists, so that South always has the option to swipe a few cans of clam chowder when those monthly cravings kick in. He wants to see Connie. He really, like the ultimate fanboy, wants to meet her.

"Do you know how fucking smart she is? I've seen her all transcripts; computer tech, medical, genetic engineering– She makes the rest of you guys look like monkeys drooling into cups."

The exuberance can be sickening at times, but just as swiftly could he shift over to the cutting, logical. Alpha has followed through on calls to assassinate platforms decked with civilians, he can demolish entire platoons without batting a pixelated eye. If the Director was giving out praise for it, Alpha always found a way.

"You know, I still don't get you." He says out of the blue. "Like, at all. This, talking and listening shit. It's... I guess it's, nice. But I don't get it."

Tonight you'll humor him, mainly because York did a fantastic job on your back.

"Why do you talk to me?" You ask, turning it around on him.

Alpha wavers, and you very easily see him running the question back for himself. "Should I not be? You are one of the cool kids right, or am I wasting time on an invalid click breech?"

You chuff lightly.

"It's not like I don't have my options lined up, all right? I have plenty of people to talk to, you just happen to be the most... convenient. Anyone asks, I can tell them I'm just doing research."

"Why me specifically?"

He shrugs, sighing out static. "...Don't let it to your head or anything, but you're kind of a big deal. Only agent with a consistent place; the favorite Freelancer. And... he talks about you sometimes."

...

"And I, I just don't want to fuck this up." You watch his feet hook at the ankles. "So like, maybe we could be, friends or whatever..."

How long had he been strategizing how to put that across? ...These laps of judgement are something you can really blame on York, or Maine who splits his sandwiches, or Connie who ignores your dismissal and makes braids out of your hair after a shower.

"Okay."

Alpha's chin jerks up, and it's ridiculous how wide the orbs expand behind his glasses.

..."Whoa, wait–Really?"

Your shrug alludes to one of his own.

..."Are you're making fun of me?"

You let him struggle it out for himself a little while longer, the dull thrum of his avatar blending rhythmically over your breathing. When he does grow silent, you roll over to your side. "You weren't finished telling me about the roster, Alpha,"

He swivels, the part between his eyebrows creased. "Huh?"

Well acclimated to his small seizures and the skips and lapses in his time frame, you sigh and reiterate for him. "The roster. Integratabtle assets."

"Oh? Oh, yeah." You watch the curling and uncurling of his fingers, forming gauntlets into fists while he backtracks frantically. "Right. So, you know what an integratabtle–"

"I do. Yes." You repeat, practising patience. It's not like he can help it. These were the signs of an A.I. overworked. For that, you could only blame the men dealing Alpha's abundant workload. "If we could somehow muscle a way through the section of shit I already know—"

"Calm down, all right? Just let me get there." Alpha's glare turns up a notch when you raise your palms in mock surrender. ..."I was developed as an integratabtle program–" You don't even get to open your mouth before he lifts a finger. "You know what a fucking implant is, yes, I get it. Quit interrupting." You smirk, and it does nothing to soften Alpha's scowl. He takes a deliberate beat before continuing. ..."When mission logs are posted to the roster, it's to evaluated agents. They're always looking to see how all the jocks stack up against each other. Like a check off pyramid. He's trying to see which of you guys meets most of the standards on his checklist."

"He's always loved his experiments." You murmur concealing any nostalgic fondness in the words. "So the board dictates that we are the best for as long as we can hold ourselves up to it. Certain bodies work better with motivation."

"He told you that?"

"I have a few theories of my own."

Alpha's mouth parts slightly, the narrowed shape of his eyes relaxing behind his glass. "Huh. Well... Good for you. Anyway, at the end of the day this is all experimental. They had you guys sign contracts and medical waivers; all the shit that was like, 400 pages long."

The small hairs at the back of your neck are beginning to rise under the tentative adjustments in Alpha's tone. Like he's suddenly realized he could be treading dangerously.

"They've been trying to replicate the Spartan program. Wait, that's not right. ...They mean to make Halsey's advancements obsolete. Nothing's final right now, but the white coats are all getting quietly worked up over some new tech coming in –there'll be a lot of neurological exams over the upcoming months while we run through the implant candidates. Real exciting nerdy stuff."

"Imp – what? Repeat that for me."

Alpha frowns at being directly ordered around, but shoulders it better than he normally would. "They're going to pick out of the highest ranking candidate, and have those guys slotted with your own doc sites. Apparently this is some pretty sensitive shit, so they've been keeping things quiet until the funding came through from the UNSC."

"What is the roster, Alpha?"

Perhaps he catches the flex of your voice on the last note, or even the slightest escalation of your pulse. Whatever tips him off to his error has Alpha caught in discomfort.

..."You're always at the top, Carolina. You're the top freelancer." His light diminishes to a dull beam as you rise quickly. "Carolina?" He watches you get up and cross the room. "...What are you gonna do?"

"Don't follow me."

His avatar faints back into your pillows. "Okay, Carolina, I don't think you understand,"

"I understood perfectly. Stay put."

"I said it wrong, okay? You're not–"

You miss the start of what he was going to protest with, going for the access panels beside the door.

"Carolina, Jesus–would you just hold up? Wait a goddamn—"

His avatar flares to life in front of the keypad, flickering a vibrant red and violet. Both his arms stand out in front of him as though he intents to stop you in full charge. –"Hang on for a goddamn second, okay? Listen–"

"Alpha, I need to talk to him."

"No! No, no you don't!" His voice shrinks a little when you threaten to go around him. "That's last thing you need to do, trust me."

"When was he going to tell me about this?"

"Soon. Real soon, like... A couple weeks? That's not important—"

"It is extremely important." Your patience is fringing away.

"I just– Okay, Carolina you knew what their intentions were with us. Like, come on, you signed how many fucking wavers? It was pretty well established that there would be experimental training methods before you conscripted yourself."

"Well you'll have to excuse me for not drawing the parallel between steroid injections and unsanctioned, open-table, surgical implantations. I never found that in the fine print."

Alpha beats once like a black light, highlighting the key signatures of the Director's glare. The dark purple vanishes quickly, as if it had never been.

"You're holding the place of their number one applicant." His jaw pixilated slightly before solidifying again. ..."You're the best and you're his favorite, and, it's not like we don't get along. I've worked out an analysis; we would be more than acceptably compatible."

..."I'm not." You stop speaking when you can't trust the words forming from your thoughts. "I don't need you", dwells in your throat, but that's not what you say. Any former aggression that had built its way up inside you crumbles and you're left feeling heavy and deflated. ..."Alpha, if you can guarantee I won't be kept in the dark–"

"You won't–"

"You have to guarantee it."

"Absolutely."

A knot of something pulls snugly under your breast. ..."Okay."

"So, we're good?"

"Sure, Alpha." The slightly tentative quirk of his brow finds the last of your resolve and steps on it. ..."I'm gonna go wash up for the night."

"Oh. Yeah, it's kinda late. I should probably be getting back to my panel." He hums himself out of sight, leaving a fading mark of white in the air where he stood last. "See you around, Red."

You let him exit in silence, and then go about collecting your things. Night clothes and a towel, toothbrush and shampoo. Your shampoo feels to be going on empty. Make a mental note to confront Connie about that later.

One week, you decide, tucking the bundle under an arm. You'll give Alpha's deal one week, and then you'll be taking matters into your own hands.

.

.

.

On your walk back down the corridor, there's a dull thrum of percussion pounding off of the walls. Upon passing South's room, you see that the structural brackets supporting the vents above her doorway are trembling. Lockdown begins in ten minutes, at which point the punk metal would cease. The music fades a little more once you've rounded the next corner.

Elevated voices come out from behind the closed compartment of Wyoming and Florida's shared space. It's lighthearted, and you pass under the light overhanging their quarters with a small smile. Out of the lights up ahead, one of them is flickering. It dies when you're almost directly beneath it.

It's sudden. Even before your body catches up with its surroundings, something drags your legs to a halt. Caught under the deadlight, your breath settles into measured beats. You breathe, one canine rubbing through the film on your bottom lip.

Your room is within sight, and the door is wide open.

Connie is doing circuits downstairs, after hours training she's been throwing herself at since her name fell from the roster. And while York is an idiot, he's never been obvious like this.

In the time it takes for you to consider whether you can remember closing it behind you, there's movement. South has a new song playing, every squeal of guitar carrying off-pitch vibrations through pipes in the hall. You remain absolutely still when the perpetrator turns out into the hall, the door resealing to his back.

He checks the hall once in your direction, but is already rotating the opposite way. You watch, measuring the weight of socked feet and slumped shoulders, an unwelcome stirring taking up its place to strike in the pit of your gut.


	12. chapter 11

_There's red on the ceiling, flashing across the wall of your room._

_Hands reach for you out of the dark, calloused and warm, hoisting you out of the comfort of dolls and blankets. Warm arms scoop you up in place of the blanket, and a soft rumble of effort hums on your ear as this comfy vessel adjusts your weight. Your eyes struggle to adjust._

_"Come on, up sunshine."_

_Papa Lucas smells like the outdoors after a storm and old library books. You dig your fingers a little into his shoulder as the staircase falls underfoot. Sounds beyond the security of his heartbeat drone away and when you look up the familiar wallpaper is gone._

_A bitter wind nips at your cheeks before you have yourself fully hidden against his neck. Flashes of color beckon at the edge of your eyes. Bright, arrhythmic flashes._

_"Papa..." Your lashes flutter against the wind, frowning over the whirl of red, blue shimmering against rain flooded streets. "Where's daddy?"_

_And then the alarms break all sound barriers._

.

.

.

The start of a shriek is in your throat when the dark lurches back. It takes a fitful beat to register your own frantic breaths, and several more to muster enough serenity to get the air moving back in and out at a safe pace.

Dark. This room is dark, there's nothing red... A hum comes from the walls, but everything else is quiet.

..."Everything okay?"

Connie's inquiry is soft and just kind of curious. You risk a glance towards the floor of her cot, catching the underside on her body propped up like she's been on her belly for a while. With you watching she drops an arm across the edge.

"Fine." You respond, only realizing how hoarse you are once it's out. "I'm fine. They're stress dreams."

Connie grunts softly, then pushes up from her elbows, resettling on her rear. She starts rummaging through the heap of track pants and jerseys based at the foot of her bed. "I'll have to remember to pick us up some lavender next time I'm off ship. Mum always did that for me when I had trouble sleeping. Did you want to talk about it?"

"No." You cut her off short. ..."No, you don't have to do that."

Connie finishes with a frustrated attempt at shimmy into her running tights while still lying down. Her face comes up annoyed and flustered, and she pushes herself out of bed still jerk them up over her thighs. She hops a little on her toes and almost falls back into bed.

"...I don't really have dreams." Mouth moving slowly, you observe this regimented dress routine. "They're almost... they feel like old memories, but I can never remember them like that."

"Like, chemical fabrications?"

..."No. I don't know... In the moment I'm aware of everything that's about to happen, but I'm there as an observer. ...I can't explain it– they're things I know I've seen before." You watch her lace her shoes, meticulously tucking the bows under drawn laces. "What would you call that?"

"Well I'm not really certified to diagnose you Carolina." She leaves her shoe alone and looks up with a crinkle between her eyes. "Have they always been the same dreams?"

"In sequence, yes. This was one I haven't had in years. Not since I was a junior in high school." You notice your arm motioning and the train of her eyes following it. ..."They're just dreams?"

"Just dreams." She coincides, though her eyes are asking plenty of questions. "Headphones are in my pillowcase if you can't sleep. I'll be on the third floor." Connie stretches, shrugging out of her sleep top as she stands. ..."I keep chocolate stashed in my sock drawer." When you stare she clicks her tongue. "You have bad dreams; l'll sleepwalk if I'm hungry."

Something warm flutters under your breast bone.

"I mean, it's only fair." Connie springs a little on her way to the door. ..."I get one of yours, you get one of mine."

.

.

.

Thursdays are pancake days. Biggest breakfast turnout of the week, the mornings where most of the team gets up at the crack of dawn and will be running hallway laps with you up until the mess hall is opens and serving.

But you can remember real breakfast food. The bottled batter knock offs leave much to be desired, displayed in greasy, unceremonious heaps. They're soggy and feel like rubber between teeth– but they are happily devoured by friends of yours used to stale read and cereal in the morning.

The real jem of this ordeal, comes not in the form of half cooked dough. Pancakes, come with pancake toppings.

Fresh fruit is thawed from the freezer and brought down and served as a delicacy. Washington has always struck you as the kid who went through elaborate means to avoid eating his vegetables, and the way he makes off with organic chocolate and sugar have only encouraged said belief. Every Thursday morning though, he's up ahead of most running laps of the third floor with you until the hall starts serving. York and North have joined forces on several occasions and have tried beating him to the fruit, but for his food he has always found a way to outmaneuver them. At the very least he would walk away with a handful of grapes and not a noise of complaint.

What you've always enjoyed, between the squabbling and the fresh incentive to be up on time, was the camaraderie. Thursdays are mornings where almost everyone sits down together. There's banter and food thrown around and yours was always the loudest table with York and South facing off personalities.

Today's Thursday and Wash is sitting next to you, plate piled high with diced strawberries and orange slices. Across the table is Florida, cutting his pancakes into small triangles with the rim of a combat knife. Washington stabs his fingers into the berries, flicking at one before he picks it up. Florida watches him pick at it, and shovels a stack of triangle inside his cheek. Wash drops the berry back onto his plate and you give him a nudge with your knee below the table.

"Stop playing with your food." You grumble, handing over the spoon that came with your coffee. "Eat like an adult."

He holds the hiked brow look like he means for it to have greater affect. When nothing comes of it he mutters his resolve and takes the spoon grouchily.

Florida grunts. Squeaking another chunk of pancake into his cheek, he talks around the mouthful. "Kinda nice to have quiet company for a change." He chews. "... Where are all our regulars at?"

"Exhibition match prep." Wash supplies, taking what is by far the most begrudging mouthful of fruit you've ever seen. The face he makes with the berries in his mouth, looks like somebody has slapped him. He has to bite to keep his mouth around the evidentially bitter fruit. ..."That's where Maine's at, and York, I think. Can't answer for anyone else."

You stare into the black waters of your mug, heavy eyes to going unfocused. York had been pried away from the early morning run by an attendee for this match and you hadn't heard from him since. North and South are a few tables down, but South has been shooting you ugly looks for about a week and North is still working to get back on her good side. You can't see them choosing to share a table with you any time soon.

"I'm kinda starting to feel excluded. Everybody at the top seems to be getting their matches."

You look up from your coffee and Wash is wielding another spoonful of strawberries.

Florida exchanges a glance with you, chewing thoughtfully. ..."Never thought I'd see the day where you were chomping at the bit for a pummelling, kiddo."

Wash wrinkles his nose, diverting his eyes to his plate. "I just... I should be doing something, right? I haven't had a legitimate sparing session in weeks."

"Hey now, number six is nothing to be ashamed of." Florida says, easing into the paternal mode he is most notably shunned for. "Never be in a rush to wreck face."

"I thought it was one of the predominant credentials to enlistment." Wash grumbles, forearms flexing under controlled irritation. ..."I really need something to do."

"You spar with Maine." You voice, gathering their attention. "He can prepare you for anything you'll come up against out there."

Wash submits, turning the fruit over in his mouth. "Usually Con– C.T. usually likes to trade blows, but she's been all..." He interrupts himself to gag. "She's been kind of, _off_ , lately."

Florida hums and it's difficult to place how much of it is genuine. "Poor girl's got something on the mind doing her damage." He lifts the fork halfway to his lips, then draws it back. "One of you two should talk to her. Tell her she really needs to stop taking rankings to heart."

"Connie's a big girl." You speak, mostly to veer them away from where this discussion is going. "She knows she's dropping behind, but she'll get back up. It's none of our business how she deals. If you would like to get bring this to the Director's attention, be my guest. I trust you know the way to his office." Last door, second floor. Every evening before lights out, there's light seeping through the split between the floor and the door. You can imagine that he has that same corner desk as he did in Arlington, that in the afternoons you were allowed up into his lap, given free reign of the computer while dad put his head back...

Another gag and the table rattles beneath your elbows.

"Washington, spit them out."

He does, choking a little and wiping his mouth. You indicate at a run of pink on his chin, the sharp motion of his arm only smearing the juice into his sleeve.

"Really?"

He reaches across the table for your mug, snatching it and taking a mouthful before you can scold. Hardly a moment passes before his face slips and he's choking. "What's in this?"

"It's coffee."

"It's _not_ ," Washington defiles, choking again. "That's dirt."

You size him up, lips curving away in a growl. "So then give it back."

Wash pushes your mug back as though it's radioactive, other hand clenched over his mouth.

Freshly bristled you take a long slurp. ..."They still have that MR case up on the counter. Wash, go get me a cranberry bar."

He stares you down before scooting off the bench. "You're in a mood today..."

"Wait, wait– get me blueberry."

If an eye roll came with an audible sound, it's the one that Washington makes as he sets off to seek and retrieve. Florida hums, and this time you can give it a label.

"That's a good kid." He says, pushing a soggy triangle around his plate. "Shame that he takes to the wrong crowds."

.

.

Wash wasn't kidding when he said it's been weeks from the last date he sparred. Twenty minutes in his lip is bleeding and there's a ripe bruise across his sternum from where you had caught him with a round house.

Maybe he had been stoking for a fight with you, maybe he hadn't. When he came back with an MRE and took a hefty bite out of it... well, it had seemed enough of a challenge at the time.

Either way, you had managed to fit enough of a window in your schedule for a session. Gratitude is far from what you've been receiving from Washington's end. He's breathing with a wheeze, and that initial spring to his step is long gone. You find that he spends too much time looking at faces, and not enough on the limbs around them.

Again, you catch him with a jab, close enough to the pressure point in his neck to – hopefully –establish his guard. He dances back a few feet and you allow him the space to regather himself. "Sloppy," You bait. "Maine's been taking it easy on you,"

Wash's gaze lifts, steeled against yours. "Maine, puts me in the recovery ward."

"I'll bet he does,"

Wash comes at you, abandoning force in favor of speed. He moves faster than York, and takes half the recovery time. His faults lie on getting in too tight–like this–and having no idea where to go from there. Fists, he doesn't really know what to do with. The way he tries to hide this reminds you of the under age colony kids collected by pop-up Army banks. The kids they would bump up to run drops to fill numbers, taught only the basics of moving and shooting.

You catch his forearm when he swings close to your chin. Your shoulder runs forward into his front, and when he bows you wind back and snap a blow to his temple. "Don't run in without a plan." Moving in slower, you brace the side of his shoulder as he staggers. "The speed is good. Work on your footwork." You slash an imaginary line across his torso. "You can't be this exposed. Someone comes at me like this in a fight, I've got the kill shot." You get a feel for the blood pulsing in his wrist before relaxing your grip. Guiding his left hand into a fist, you have him drive up into the joint connecting to your shoulder. "Go from here."

He moves as you start relinquish your grip, hitting the sensitive gap and twisting your arm back. Satisfied with the sizzle of nerves running up and down your arm, you follow his jukes, cutting at his forearms until an elbow snaps against your jugular. The air lurches out almost alarmingly, and before the spots have cleared your vision he has his arm torn free.

"Now think," You tell him over your closing throat. "Where to go,"

You swing from the left and he steps around. You back up, putting some distance between yourself and him. He comes back like a freight train and it's almost aggravating, observing him fall right back into the same mindset. This time you let him charge into the space you had occupied previously. He drags his ankles down to pivot but your elbow drives between a narrow slit of his ribs and the wind that comes out of him sounds almost chalky. Achy and frustrated, you pull back to let him breathe. "Where are you going, Wash?"

–"Not all of us have moves like the fucking Terminator..." He's wheezing like there's a fist on his throat. "... You're too good at this,"

"You don't get out of this with flattery, my name's not New York. You need to be anticipating movements, Wash– look at me."

"My lungs are about to burst..."

"Washington. Think about where I'm going to be. Where can I hit you the hardest?"

Wash looks up, puffing through his cheeks. "You can hit from anywhere."

"So you _defend_ from everywhere."

He makes one rough noise you can't quite pinpoint as a scoff or a cough.

"Try a little bit of offence. All you're trying to do right now is get within range to disarm me."

He blinks, eyes shot with fatigue. "What's wrong with that?"

"It's not what we do. When going in for a kill, you have to be closer about it. Force me into a state where I'm too busy guarding myself think of where I can land hits on you." When he doesn't move to advance you clap his shoulder. "Come on. We're going again."

 

He doesn't cover all of his openings, but by the time you're ready to call it quits the frustration from your end has been defused. Your shoulder aches when you drop down to the floor with Wash. Nursing the split in his lip with his sweatshirt, he passes a water bottle over as you sprawl out on your back.

"Thanks." Beyond the swell of his lip, he sounds pleased.

"I'm going to have Connie look at your framework." You unscrew the cap and swallow ravenously. ..."She'll get you better around a knife. Better than I can."

Wash grunts, taking the bottle as you hand it back. "She's got enough on her plate right now, without my shitty CQC scores to ice the cake."

"You boys are making too big of a deal out of this. She's going to work through this, and how she does so is up to her."

"You think this is just a phase?"

"Connecticut is a woman. I am a woman. I think I would get this a little better than you, Wash."

Washington flips off the cap of his water and takes a mouthful. ..."Mind if I ask something?"

Your eyes flit sideways, half lidded. "What about?"

"About the armor enhancements." When you don't object he takes it as his cue to proceed. "You have a few of them, but you only really use one of them at a time?"

"They hook up to our command server. Signals grow weaker the more distance gets put between units. Usually there's enough power per pack to run one at a time, within measured intervals. Units vary in how they expend power so you really have to be watching the stats. Pressing the units too hard can cause a surge that shuts down a pack. Armor overloading is rare but given the right fluctuations of energy, shit can happen."

"...Aren't all medical devices meant to run with backup connections in place?" Wash squirms a little. "...I mean, York has a fucking healing unit,"

"It requires the same connection to our server to remain operational."

"...Can't really see the appeal of running the thing if it's going to max out before the job's done..."

"They've been working on updating our units." You say, concealing anything in your voice that could be misinterpreted. "You shouldn't be worrying about this, Wash."

He sits quietly, fingers folded. His lip is bleeding again when he turns himself to you. ..."The thing with Utah. ...Was that just a hoax, the equipment malfunction?"

"The unit was improperly wired. They've had a technician clear it since and North hasn't shown any signs of issue with it."

"You mean other than that one time its pack overheated and nearly knocked him into cardiac arrest?"

"I'll talk to Connie."

He remains seated as you straighten off of your elbows, the sweatshirt still held to his lip.

..."Wash, I would never have agreed to these administrations if there were any doubts regarding safety."

He nods hard twice. "Sure, I know that. I just, I think it might be me, you know? It just... it all sounds so intrusive..."

You stare, feeling a draft of eeriness murmuring into your shared space. Wash gets lied to all the time. York and North have him convinced there's a secret pool deck nobody is telling him about. Maine has some pretty outstanding stories of his own to showcase this gullibility. You tell yourself that this is no different; all you're doing is jumping on the bandwagon.

A light clamp echoes through the training room, and you've already flinched before you see Washington sealing the bottle up. He shakes himself at the neck, and the sweat has his hair jutting out in spikes. "I'll see you." He says, pushing off the floor. "There's this thing I've gotta get to with the upper brass. Don't know why they even asked for me."

A few moments go by before you notice the arm he's stretched out and wave him off. "I'm going to stick around. The match is coming up."

"Right, that should be interesting. Maybe I'll catch the tail end of it." He tucks the water and his hoodie underarm as the MOI's circulation system kicks to life. "If you see York, would you tell him I'm up for 'Apollo 117'?"

"What is it with you boys and shitty movies?"

"Says the square who likes the original 'Dukes of Hazzard'." Washington hops about a foot to the side when you make a sweep at his ankles, staring down with mock disapproval. "You should come. Make some snide remarks, eat all of our junk food."

The loose back of your sweatshirt flails at a gust of air, an icy row of needles pinning along where the sweat collects at your back. A bit of a smile crooks your features. "You boys had better bring extra."

.

//


	13. Chapter twelve

_Leonard and Papa Lucas could never seem to be peaceful with each other. Were they made to share a room, you could feel the tension like a toxic film in the air._

_“You’re both fucking stupid,” Mum would comment, most times to their faces. It would get her funny looks and at least a few moments of a stalemate. As of late, she hasn’t been there to negotiate peace talks._

_It's early evening, and you're with grandma Beth. She smiles, watching from the vegetable garden as you spiral in the farm’s old tire swing. The swing is the best part of coming here, and you’ve been in love ever since Leonard introduced you to it. What feels like a lifetime ago, he showed you how to twist the chains, when to kick and still maintain control. ...Losing your sense of presence, that’s what you love most. Putting your head back to the orchard trees, upside down and spinning, letting the carousel-like motions swallow you entirely, and then spin you until everything else becomes scattered._

_Swinging does away with the tension that had come from seeing Papa Lucas waiting at the bus stop today. Leonard never used to miss the bus. He was always on time, sitting in the car with his tablet or a running audiobook when you would climb into the passenger seat._

_Afternoon passes. The sky goes sherbet orange and you’re called for dinner. On into the evening you don't ask, because the air feels fragile enough. An ounce of awkward pressure might have it shatter altogether._

_It's both late and dark when voices in the lane stir you from sleep. Your father's is the dominant one, and that alone sets your pulse off into lurches. Downstairs, the screen door clatters, and then Papa speaks again, lower than Leonard but just as upset. Your stomach churns as their voices grow nearer, rising up from the farmhouse’s staircase._

_You’ve started to consider pretending you’re asleep when the door to the guest bedroom opens. In with a spill of light from the hallway Leonard crosses the floor, the musk of countryside heat seeping in with his silhouette. His shirts haven't been tucked in lately, unless you’ve done it for him. He sits down on the edge of the bed and your first instinct is to take the tail of his shirt and start tucking it into his pants._

_Leonard sits quietly until your tired mind is satisfied, then he bends down, eyes like yours but far heavier with weary flicking over your face. "Do you want to go home?"_

_Your eyes are heavy, but the word resonates with warmth and encourages you to nod._

_Leonard's arms extend and the rest of your body all but keels into his chest, arms ghosting to latch a ring around his neck. You feel the exertion in his chest as he picks you up and would very much like to drown in it. His arms feel like no other place._

_The two of you maneuver around grandma in the hallway. She touches your cheek and speaks something too soft for your ears on the way by. Papa Lucas stands sentry by the door, and proceeds to follow you down from the porch. He stands by the car while Leonard buckles you in and reclines the seat a little for the ride home._

_"She shouldn't be up front." Papa says as the buckle clicks._

_Leonard says nothing, not even something smart, and that's usually customary to these heated exchanges. Your eyelids are practically dragging yet you force them back, just enough to see Leonard step into his father's space, and the blatant pity in Papa's eyes. “You're not well. Please see someone. It's been–"_

_“If you ever try this again, I'll call the fucking cops."_

_The passenger door swings shut, and the rest of their argument is muffled._

_The next time you come back, it's to the smooth rhythm of a highway. Head tilted against the window, your eyes following a blur of road lines._

_"I hear you had gyros for dinner." Leonard says, taking a glance to see you're awake. "Thought you hated Greek food."_

_"I like grandma’s," you offer, a little less bleary now that you’ve had some uninterrupted sleep._

_"Of course you do..." He grumbles, a sourly good natured tone that you recognize well. "I picked up some ice cream on the way home,” He says, reaching into the back seat without removing his eyes from the empty lane. He brings up a bag. “Do you still like strawberry?"_

_Your forehead peals from the cool glass, bouncing back into the upholstery. Leonard finds a smile to match yours as the bag exchanges hands, then returns his attention to the road. You hold onto that, plucking loose the lid on a warm tub of ice cream and dipping your fingers in._

_Everything else scatters._

.  
.  
.

The huey glow that seeps through your lashes is bright in contrast to pitch dark. Your eyes flutter, pulling your brows together and into a grimace. Your mind works ahead, trying to fit the light into what it derives from memory.

"Alpha?" You roll to your elbows, blankets twisting round your frame.

Across the room something slaps shut, and after a moment your mattress creaks and Connie is slouching to get a better look at you.

"Hey." She says, chestnut eyes flicking across the bedsheets. "How you doing boss?"

Slow to calibrate, you stare for a moment. Connie rocks a little, nerves peeking through as her teeth pinch around a lip. "Are you remembering everything all right?" She asks, treading carefully.

An initial spark of frustration precedes a rush of all that encompassed yesterday's whirlwind of anarchy. The click of pins, and a rolling grenade... white triangular tiles of the waiting room outside of medical–

_Time slowing, observation deck becoming a wall of background distortion as your eyes tunnel to motion of a canister 30 feet below. The flash of its shell exterior that has you shoving for the window, clamoring at the glass..._

"I'm remembering... What's the time?"

C.T. checks the bright blue display on her digital watch. "It's almost three am. You only slept for a few hours." Her eyes cast down, sympathetic. "Wash and North just turned in for the night. There's been no change."

– _Knees hitting the ground you pitch forward, skidding on shards of amber._

_'Keep him still. Keep him still, keep him calm.'–_

She is trying to be helpful. You know this, but the statement feels like an anchor dragging you down beneath this incredible wave, displaying York's accident like it’s an ‘old time’ movie reel across your eyes; frayed by memory but still too clear.

C.T. doesn't bother at masking her disapproval, following your feet as they slip out from under the sheets. "Where are you going?"

"That's not really your business,"

"Well, to have any confidence in my own alibi, I'll be needing to know yours." She's aiming for a scowl you cannot muster. When this dawns upon her, the curiosity falls away to concern. "You looked like you were sleeping well, I didn't want to..."

"No, no." You pause, wincing at the start of a migraine. "I'm okay, that's not the issue."

C.T. folds one leg up onto your bed, paying far more attention to you now than she ever has during assignments or debriefings.

You remember that, at some point between "no vision" and a surgeon’s exit, C.T.'s knee had moved closer to yours. When the floodlights came on at 11 and it had been just you and C.T. in the waiting room, she had taken you by the elbow and lead you out. Back in your room she had laid out your night clothes, and put no consideration towards dignity before helping you into them, pausing only to give the shirt’s moth holes a judging look.

_– “splinters perforating the left optic grove. ...Surgery to determine whether it must be disconnected…”–_

"How did this happen?" The breath feels odd, like those words have just plowed down the last of your supportive beams. "How did we even get here?" Live ammunition... It was live. The crack of a grenade replays itself.

"Disregard," C.T. volunteers on a tired breath. "...Arrogance, alternate motivations. There are only a finite amount of slots on that board."

It shocks you, how rapidly you feel the changes as you flare up. Back at the roster. Of course Connie is always able to take it back to the roster. "Were you expecting something like this to happen?"

C.T. looks around at you, recovering from the shock of your inquiry. She licks her lips, considering slowly. "For this in particular?"

That lack of conviction is enough to churn the molten materials lodged inside your throat. This doesn’t go unnoticed. You can see it when C.T. bristles.

"Do you think this is something that I wanted?"

"I think that York dropping a few ranks isn't something that will take from your hand."

…“Carolina, you might still be in some shock. York is in the recovery ward, I know this is awful. It’s hard on everyone.”

“You’re not saying that it shouldn’t have happened.”

C.T. exhales slowly, her eyes straining against yours. “I think, that this couldn’t have happened to someone as undeserving of it as York. He’s been a better friend than I’m sure either of us deserve–"

"But friend’s aren't what either of us came here for." Her silence goads you on. "So what are you doing?"

The lines of her face draw flat. "What am _I_ doing?"

"How about we start with Washington?"

The arch of a perfect eyebrow punctuates the flinch of her lips. ..."I'm, doing exactly what you told me to? Getting him better around knives. What was I supposed to be doing, boss?"

"He's been coming in and out of our room for longer than CQC session have been going on. Explain that to me, Connecticut."

The white expands in her eyes, then cautiously levels out. "Jesus Christ, Carolina. Could you accuse me of unprofessional fraternization a little bit louder?" Her brows knit together like she's holding something sour on her tongue. "He was dropping off my helmet, all right? He did it once."

"How did he know how to get in?" It comes out closer to a demand; her insecurities are offering you strength. "I'm not asking, Connie. I know you. You'll get inside his head, if you haven’t already. Washington was never worried about our equipment before–so why now is he critiquing armor enhancements?"

Her frown buckles to the edges of her lips. "I have no claim in stake to how Wash thinks. There's a climbing casualty rate within trial stages. You think that's something a former marine wouldn't have looked into for themselves? He and I both knew people from the bottom squads."

"He was talking about the healing unit they were going to have fitted to York. Something I didn't even know about until I was informed days ago. Something they weren't planning to announce until all its systems had been checked out and cleared. York wasn't even brought into the loop." She's right next to you and if you listen carefully you think that's her pulse beating over the ship engine’s. "Wash is smart, but he would never consider himself thorough enough at what he does to navigate through private service channels or infiltrate the MOI's data stream."

C.T. has gone stiff, the flash of understanding on her eyes clear as an explosion.

"However, sneaking around appears to be your area of fortitude."

"...I am tired, of not knowing." She says slowly. "And I think you are, too. What are we even dealing with? Look at what happened today! Carolina, our numbers are plummeting like they were in the beginning, only this time there are no mission logs. There’s been no outsourcing, no discharging of agents. Where are all these people going? I had friends in the double digits– friends before Alpha squad was even assembled, and I don't know where they are!"

"Who have you been talking to?" You demand, slowly getting up.

C.T. stutters, like she's running back everything in her mind. As though you had caught something that you shouldn't have.

"...Who else do you talk to like this?"

"Report me if it’s going to let you sleep better, Carolina,” She says, and you try not to flinch at her choice of words. “But good luck finding a mark on me you can validate. Wash came in here one time. I knew I was going to get pretty drunk so I gave him the key code to get me in. ...I’ll let you explain on your own terms how York snagged my copy of _‘1984’._ ”

"Are you blackmailing me?"

"Should I be, boss?"

That takes you back, the stun of rage bringing you up short.

“...You know, Carolina, I actually thought we were friends.”

You feel C.T. eyes following as you gather the pillow from your cot and a sweatshirt off the floor under an arm. This time, she makes no attempt at deterring you from the door.

.  
.  
.

"You got up early. Are they serving organic food for breakfast this morning?”

A surge of defensive energy jolts through your limbs, snapping you into an uncomfortable, upright position in the chair. Armor clunks nearby, from the direction of the filtered voice, boots on the hospital wing's tile.

Something vile and bitter takes residence in your mouth. Your teeth slowly grind together as the silhouette goes from threat to stranger and then a full circle back to threat.

"If I were in your shoes, I'd get one of those attendees to fetch us some blankets, I mean in the least..." To your immediate affront, the black spartan drops herself into the lounge chair across from yours.

"Not to be rude," You start, acknowledging the croak in your throat. "...but would you mind leaving?"

Agent Texas doesn't flinch. She hardly acknowledges your venom in any way, actually. The revelation that you are without armor is a slow one. Hardly alert and donning track shorts with a loose fitted marathon t-shirt, it’s no wonder Texas can’t seem to be bothered.

“There used to be this, ‘method’ for identifying top shooters in the infantry. Marksmen with the keenest focus, they could pop the eye socket of a Covie a hundred yards out.” She leans back, visor tilted back to level with the ceiling. “For all the good it did… There were still plenty of one-eyed Covies on the ground to light our asses up.”

A little below the surface, the frigidity that's been holding you together for the last eight hours is homing in on its directive. "...Thank you for that."

"Seemed relevant.” She says, without a beat. “So, what are we doing camped out by the infirmary? I’d have thought with a mouth like that, your boyfriend would be real familiar with the inside of medical."

“Really. I would rather we not talk."

"Well, I’m thinkin’ you might do better with a distraction of sorts." Texas runs her tone through several inflections before settling on considerate. "Waiting is always the worst of it. You're doing okay."

The words take you someplace else. A very suppressed place else that you just as quickly shut the door on. "I don't need to be told how I'm doing." You fold, making sure to drag your knees in opposite direction of the soldier across the room.

Through the slit of your eyes you see her adjusting into her seat. Her ankles cross, and she pushes a rattled breath through her respirator. "Okay then, tough girl. Would you mind it if I just sat here for a while?"

You mind. You don't want her standing sentinel. If you wake from another fitful sleep, she’d be the last person on this ship you would want to see.

_–"Penetrated the ocular globe..."_

_"Laceration to the left cornea... loss of vision."–_

You should be back in your cot, waiting on Connie’s gentle breathing and a layer of clean sheets to put your mind to rest. You should not be here. He should not be here.

Texas's boot scuffs the floor and a sigh filters from her respirator. Her breaths are short and crackled. She has no chance at living up to Connie's methods at easing you from one nightmare to another.

If there was a chance for you to revisit yesterday, you would have told him you were always planning to come to his movie screening. The look that would take up his face, half of wonder, half surprise–that should have been the start of York’s yesterday.

"We were suppose to be watching a movie," You don't mean to say this aloud.

Texas grunts, the kevlar adjusting against her armor. "Oh yeah?"

"A dumb one." You don't try to filter the fondness out of it.

“I'll tell yah, kid," Texas stretches out, posture slumping into her seat. "Men are fucking stupid."

.  
.  
.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Fourth of July!
> 
> I apologize for the chapter delay, June was a mad rush! I'll be moving cities soon, so July might be another write-off. 
> 
> On a more positive note, moving means time off and this is day four of Camp NaNo;) I hope to have this fic finished by the end of the summer
> 
> [ PlayerProphet ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlayerProphet/pseuds/PlayerProphet%20), thank you for helping me refresh things that had gone stale, and for mercy-killing my adverbs. You're so much better than I deserve!


End file.
